


Free Trials

by Vague_Shadows



Series: The Family Business [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Derek Hale POV, FixIt!Fic, Gen, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Sam Winchester POV, Slow build Sterek, Stiles POV, Stiles is not a Damsel in Distress, Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover, and when i say slow build i mean really slow (as in later in the series), blue-eyed beta theory, set up for future!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Stiles decide to give the Hale Pack a try, asking for a 'free trial' in hopes of making the pack more like a family and surviving long enough to see graduation. They end up getting more trials than they bargained for when the Winchesters arrive in Beacon Hills to help Chris Argent stop the alpha pack that's been leaving a gruesome trail of bodies up through California.</p><p>Neither side likes the other, but a truce between them may be their only chance of bringing down the alphas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> As you read, just know that I'm laying a foundation for a whole series, so I'm not promising quick, action packed first few chapters. I'm making sure I've got enough of a foundation to build from down the road. 
> 
> Sorry I'm not sorry :)

### Prologue:

 

It’s been a week since everything went down at the warehouse, a week since Stiles and Scott started distancing themselves from Derek’s pack again, a week since they began trying regain some semblance of normalcy in their lives.

They’ve spent most of the days this week at the lacrosse field, trying to hone Stiles’ skills enough to merit first line even without a pink eye epidemic.  He’s actually pretty proud of the progress overall, and he’s holding his own as long as Scott keeps the werewolf powers turned off.  He’s in the middle of a shameless celebration dance over blocking six shots in a row when Scott suddenly stills, tenses, and turns to look toward the bleachers.  Stiles stops dancing to follow Scott’s gaze.  Isaac emerges from around the stands.  He doesn’t speak, just stares unblinkingly from the side of the field.

“Yeah, you’re definitely in the Hale pack. Are creeper lessons part of training?” Stiles calls.

Isaac’s gaze turns from one of indifference into a glare. Stiles smiles because it’s such a Derek type of response it only adds to his Hale pack jab.  Isaac moves toward them.

“I know what you’re here to talk about,” Scott says. “How many times do I have to tell Derek it was just temporary? I had a plan. I was protecting my mom.  I’m _not_ joining Derek’s pack.”

“I’m not here for Derek,” Isaac counters. “I’m here for me.”

  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, Scott, I know you don’t like being a werewolf; I know you didn’t ask for it, but it’s not something you can change.”

“Yeah, you’re right because _Derek_ took the only shot I had at a cure.”

“I didn’t come here to argue about what you think of Derek.  This is bigger than Derek now.”

“What is?”

“There’s another pack.”

“Another pack? Of werewolves?”

“No, Scott, a pack of gum,” Stiles quips, unable to stop himself.  

 _“Of course_ another pack of werewolves. And not just any pack, they’re alphas,” Isaac expounds.

“How is that even possible?” Stiles asks, confused.

“I don’t really understand it either. Apparently it’s rare, but it works.  It makes them almost impossible to beat.”

“What do they want here?” Scott demands.

“We don’t know yet, but I do know it means we have to be as strong as possible and--”

“Bigger pack more strength; I know.”

“Not just that.”

“Then what?”

“We need to trust each other, and we don’t. We’ve got to be a family.  I heard Peter talking to Derek about it—saying that was what made the Hale Pack so strong before, what kept other packs from challenging their territory, but now Derek’s trying to figure out this Alpha stuff and all Peter does is try to boss him around and Erica and Boyd are gone and Derek still thinks I’m a kid and doesn’t tell me anything. Jackson is—well, he’s Jackson.”

“So what’s that got to do with me?”

“Derek listens to you. He trusts you.”

Stiles can’t hold back the snort of laughter that escapes him.

“No, he doesn’t,” Scott argues.

“He kind of hates both of us, dude,” Stiles agrees.

“You know he doesn’t.  Not really.  Otherwise he wouldn’t care so much about getting you in the pack.”

“He just wants a bigger pack. He doesn’t care about—”

“Look, I know you don’t get along with him, but he comes when you need help. He’s saved your ass, and you’ve saved his. You don’t have to be best friends with him or anything; I’m just asking you to give him a shot. He’s not so bad most of the time. You could handle being in the pack.”

“No,” Scott says simply. 

“Come on, man.  You’ve broken up with Allison already, if there was ever a chance for you to try out the pack, this is it.  You can always leave if you want.” 

Stiles is trying and failing to ignore the slight sting of the fact that no one is bothering to recruit the sarcastic human.  Not that he wants to be in Derek’s pack, after all it would significantly increase his chances of bodily harm, but that’s beside the point.  Stiles just as much an asset as Scott.

 His wounded ego moves to the back of his mind when Isaac adds quietly, “I mean, Erica and Boyd left, and Derek let them. You don’t have to stay forever.”

And okay, yeah, Stiles is a big softy because Isaac now looks like a puppy who’s been kicked too many times—and Stiles realizes with an unpleasant turn in his stomach just how accurate that analogy is.

“They’re really gone, huh?” Stiles asks.  “Still no word?”

Isaac shakes his head.  “Nope, and maybe Boyd was kinda quiet and Erica could be a bitch sometimes, but at least we all kinda had something in common.  We got along pretty well.  As it stands, my pack is me, one broody Alpha, one half-sane sarcastic uncle, and one recovering douche. It’s pack; it’s better than nothing, but it could use some work. So would you at least talk to him—and not the yelling match that happened right after the showdown at the warehouse—actually _talk._ ”

Scott looks over to Stiles, inevitable surrender in both their eyes.  The thing of it is, Scott has always had a weird sense of responsibility to Isaac, Erica, and Boyd even though it hadn’t been him who’d brought them into this.  Stiles still hasn’t gotten past the realization that when it came to grieving fathers, he’d been damn lucky to have a dad whose worst moments involved occasional overindulgence in whiskey and not anger so fierce that he made his son’s life a living hell.  He knows that it makes no sense, but he can’t help feel like he owes Isaac something for being the one lucky enough to have the better dad.  If there’s one person who could convince them to consider Derek’s pack as a possibility, it’s Isaac.  After a few more moments of silent communication that speaks to their epic bromance (not that Stiles would ever call it a bromance out loud), Scott sighs in defeat.

“Fine, okay? I’ll talk to him.

“Really?”

“Just talk.  That’s it. I’m No promises. And Stiles is coming too. Tell Derek we’ll come over tomorrow after I get off work.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him,” Isaac replies, and he’s got a grin on his face like he can’t believe this conversation worked. “Thanks, Scott.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Stiles looks over at Scott as Isaac walks away.

“Why do I get the feeling we’re going to regret this?”

“Because it’s werewolf politics, and we probably are.”

“Right.”

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 “So about what Isaac said, about you being able to leave the pack if you wanted to and now being the time to try it out,” Stiles says as they leave the field and head for the nearest Arby’s for some well-deserved curly fries.

“What about it?”

“I mean, stuff like this is going to keep happening, right? It’s been a steady stream of big bad mythological creatures lately.  First a rogue alpha, then a kanima, now apparently there’s a whole fucking pack of alphas? Maybe if you go ahead and join, you can put in your own terms if you want.”

“That means letting Derek win,” Scott says.

“No, it means you’re doing him a favor, and you can make damn sure he knows that.  Remind him you’re not afraid to leave.”

“It’s not going to work.  Derek’s still an asshole.”

“Yeah, and if you hadn’t been around, he’d have killed Jackson.”

“Technically, he still killed Jackson.”

“Yeah, but that was a last resort.  When you joined his pack, you told him it was only if you could try to save Jackson, and he agreed to it.  Once you think about it, Isaac’s kind of right when he says Derek listens to you.”

“I’m not joining the pack to be Derek Hale’s Jiminy Cricket.”

“It’s your call to make, dude, but Isaac had some pretty decent arguments.  You could handle being pack even if you didn’t really like it, and Derek could maybe use a Jiminy Cricket if he’s about to go into battle mode with a pack of alphas around.  I’m not saying this is gonna be Full House hugs and happy endings. I’m just saying maybe it’ll be tolerable and slightly increase our chances of surviving long enough to graduate high school.”

Scott sighs and looks over at Stiles. Stiles knows the look. It’s the look that says “you always manage to make these things sound like a good idea, but we both know we’re probably going to end up in deep shit later.” 

“Fine,” Scott says.  “We’ll try joining the pack for a while.”

“Wait, _we_? There’s only one lycanthrope in this friendship, dude, which is more than enough.”

“I’m not just gonna leave you out. You’re my pack, dude. Besides, Derek’s family had humans before.”

Stiles is honest-to-god touched by that statement. Yeah maybe Scott is a bit obtuse sometimes and got a bit too obsessed over Allison lately, but they’re still best friends.  While Stiles had been slightly miffed no one was recruiting the human, Scott assumed recruiting one of them meant both of them.  Scott’s face mirrors the wide grin that spreads across Stiles’. 

“You really think Derek’s going to let _me_ in?” Stiles asks, pointing out the obvious flaw in this idea.

"He bit Jackson.”

“Because he hoped it would kill him.”

“Well, he hasn’t tried to kill you yet, so you at least know he likes you better than Jackson?”

“Ya know, somehow that argument isn’t very heartening.”

“Come on, Stiles. You’d be good in the pack.  You’re not scared of Derek—well not scared enough to stop telling him what to do anyway and you can get Deaton to show you more stuff like that thing you did with the mountain ash.”

“Oh, I’m fully aware of just how badass I am, but I don’t know that we’re going to get Señor Sourwolf to agree with us.”  

“You’re the one who said I should set my own terms.  This is it.  Both of us or nothing because apparently, they need us.”

“And if Alphas really are coming, I’d rather us not die. So we probably need them too, huh?”

“So we’ll tell Derek we’ll try it?” Scott asks.

“Sure,” Stiles agrees. “Let’s give it a shot. Two weeks, and, if we still hate them, we’ll take our chances just the two of us.”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.”


	2. Chapter 1

There’s not actually much of a discussion when Scott and Stiles get to the remnants of the Hale house Thursday evening.  If Derek’s honest with himself, he’s surprised they came at all.  He’s been trying all week to figure out how to make Scott understand that the alphas are dangerous and he should join the pack.  He’d somehow avoided strangling his uncle as he pestered Derek to figure out how to gain Scott’s trust.  Neither of them had expected that the answer was to have Isaac go to them with a simple request.  Derek still isn’t sure exactly what Isaac had said to them.  He’s mostly just enjoying the fact that Isaac is acting for the good of the pack without having to be told.  With Jackson fighting Derek’s authority at every step, it’s nice to get a little support from his other young beta. 

Once Derek, Scott, and Stiles are standing awkwardly on the half-destroyed front porch of the house, Stiles presents their offer to join the pack by saying, “Essentially, we’d like a two week free trial of the Hale pack membership.”

“You want a free trial membership?” Derek repeats dubiously.

“Look, we’re considering it, okay?” Scott says, “But we’re not saying it’s our favorite idea in the world.  We’ll just give it a shot.  Both of us because I’m not in unless Stiles is.”

“Fine then.  Two weeks,” Derek agrees with a nod.

He hopes that’s long enough for them to understand they need a pack to survive. He knows he gave the line to Scott about understanding that Scott had his own pack, and he does, in a way, but it’s now down to just these two boys since Jackson joined Derek, Lydia followed Jackson, and Allison jumped ship ( _thank fucking God_ ).  With a pack of alphas looming over their heads, they all need a pack as strong as possible which means they need numbers and quality. Bringing in Scott gives him both.  If that means bringing Stiles in too, it isn’t much of a hardship.  As much as Stiles can annoy Derek, the kid has shown he can hold his own in the supernatural shit storms that have descended on Beacon Hills to date.  There’s definitely something to be said for that.

“Is that seriously it?” Stiles asks. “No lecture about just joining outright? No threats of bodily harm? Nothing?”

 “You said two weeks; I’ll give you two weeks.  Problem?”

“No, no problem—just—unexpected.”

 “Scott, you’re sparring outside with us. Stiles, there’s a computer on the table in the library.  Peter’s been doing some research.  Take a look at what he’s got, and see if you can add anything to it.”

“Why am I stuck on research?”

“You can’t spar with the wolves. You can either research or run laps.”

“Okay.  So what’s the password to the computer?”

“Allison,” Derek replies with a smirk.

Scott glares at him.  “That’s not funny.”

Stiles has on his best you-insulted-my-friend bitchface, but his eyes are laughing.  Maybe it’s a cruel comment considering that Allison has dumped Scott. Honestly though, it will never stop being funny, and Scott’s an easy mark.

“Seriously, what’s the password?” Stiles asks.

“Hale91587.”

“That’s not your birthday,” Stiles comments.

 _No, it’s Laura’s._ “You know my birthday?”

“You’re not the only one who stalks people, creeperwolf.  Know thy enemy.” 

“Because clearly knowing my birthday is crucial to my downfall.”

“I did some digging around on your history back when you first came to town, okay? We thought you were the alpha. I like research. Sue me.” Derek rolls his eyes.  “What do the numbers mean?”

“There’s a mobile hotspot in the computer bag,” Derek tells him, completely ignoring the question.

 It’s evident Stiles wants to pursue the inquiry, but he leaves it alone for now. 

“Okay. Password for that?”

“Same.”

Derek motions for Scott to come with him as he walks out to where Isaac and Jackson are waiting.

 

 *************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

Stiles goes into the creepy shell of what was once a pretty awesome library.  All the books are gone now. He wonders for a minute if Derek has them saved away someplace and if they’re normal books or books on werewolves or both.  He might have to ask about that later.  In the meantime, he gets out the computer, signs in, looks through Peter’s research, and tries not to be distracted by the sounds of the sparring out front.  He’s got a serious urge to go watch Jackson get his ass handed to him over and over again, and, in the end, he lasts through about half an hour of super serious research time before moving outside. Personally, he’s proud he held out that long. Derek glares at him as he settles himself on the edge of the rickety porch.

 “What? I brought the computer. I’m still researching. I just needed a change of scene.”

Derek turns back to the fighting, and Stiles continues searching through all forms of bullshit looking for semi-credible information.  He can’t help it if the information is getting to be the same crap over and over, and it’s way more entertaining to watch the wolves sparring.  He thinks they need to work on a playbook or something.  The fact that the three betas play lacrosse together should have made them realize they needed to coordinate, but it seems they’re all convinced they can handle it themselves.

 “Okay, we’re done,” Derek says finally.  “Two laps of the perimeter of the property, and you can go.  Jackson, drop Isaac by the Kinkaids’ on your way home.”

 “Laps? Are you serious?” Jackson demands, rounding on Derek.

“Jackson,” Derek warns.

“Just take the laps, dude,” Isaac urges.

“No, this is bullshit.  We just did laps of the whole damn preserve two days ago.  Why should we be running when we’re trying to heal?”

Derek grabbs Jackson’s arm and twists it deftly.  Stiles startles when he hears the crack of the bone.  “Stop whining and run,” Derek says coldly.  “This isn’t a discussion.  You’ll thank me when you survive the alphas.”

 “Doubtful,” Jackson mutters but doesn’t complain further.

“I keep telling you not to bitch about it,” Isaac comments to Jackson as the three betas begin to trot off.  “Slow learning curve, huh?”

 “Shut up, Lahey. Nobody asked you.”

Stiles stares at Derek with abject horror that’s slowly morphing to fury.  Derek regards him mildly as he walks up to the house.

 “Find anything?”

 “Not really.”

 “Keep looking until Scott gets back,” he instructs moving to go in the house.

 “If I complain about that, you gonna break my arm too?” Sitles demands, standing.

“It’s different with wolves, Stiles,” Derek says dismissively. 

 “What the hell are you thinking? You can’t treat them like—” 

Derek’s hand comes down hard on Stiles shoulder. Stiles tries to control his heart rate, but he knows Derek heard it jump; Stiles hates that.

 “I’m their Alpha; Yours too in case you’ve forgotten in the past two hours.  I’ll train all of you in whatever way works.” 

“I’ve just got one question for you,” Stiles pushes, determined as ever not to let Derek intimidate him.  
 

“What?”

“You ever break Isaac’s arm?”

“What? You think I’m playing favorites?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Yeah, I did, and I only had to do it once before he got it through his head that training is important.  Not my fault Jackson’s not so quick on the uptake.”              

“Wonder why that is,” Stiles asks.  “Probably because Isaac got so many years of practice with his dad.”

Derek’s grip on Stiles’ shoulders tightens painfully. 

“I don’t just go around breaking bones for just anything. It’s only in practice when they’re healing is jumpstarted anyway. I am _not_ like his dad,” Derek insists, shaking Stiles just a bit which does nothing to aid in his argument.

“Really? Tell me the difference.”

 “For starters, I don’t lock him in a freezer in the basement.”

“Maybe not, but you’re using excessive pain to get him to do what you want.  You’re just the lesser of two evils, man. You can’t forget what he lived with before you turned him. I mean did you even _think_ about it?”

Derek’s silence is answer enough.

“You’ve got to pay attention to your pack, Derek,” Stiles says. “You gotta know them.”

“I don’t have time to worry about their feelings when I’m trying to teach them how to survive!”

“This is why they don’t trust you! You’re so focused on the survival aspect you rush to do everything.  You don’t take time to worry about each of them; you just lump it all together and worry about the whole.  Maybe that works in a pinch, but in the long run you’ve gotta know the individuals if you’re going to figure out how to make the team work.  You can’t just throw together a play and risk putting the goalie at midfield.  Get to know them; play to their strengths instead of shoving them into a mold. Then maybe they could at least learn to take down one alpha at practice  before they have to go up against a whole pack in a real fight.  Your only advice for the entirety of sparring was that they had to do better, be faster, get stronger—”

“They do—”

“Be constructive!” Stiles insists, breaking off Derek’s chance at defending himself.  “Tell Isaac he’s got to build some muscle up, and work on his right side; it’s noticeably weaker.  Remind Jackson to work on his control.  He looks like he can barely keep beta form when he gets a hard blow; one of you should help him channel enough of the pain into anger to stay shifted.  Watch the way Scott’s trying to work with Isaac, and encourage it. Tell all three of them to work together; give them homework to make new attack strategies.”

Derek scowls and shoves Stiles back as he releases his shoulders. “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it, Stiles. Get back to the research.”

 

 ********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek walks into his house and up the stairs.  He always seems to end up in Laura’s room when he walks in with his mind on something else.  Shutting the door behind him, he sits against the wall because the far side of the room is no longer structurally sound enough to bear weight. The room is in shambles, a pathetic shadow of what it had once been, just like the rest of the house, but he can’t help feeling like Laura is still here somewhere.  He knows he’s clinging to her ghost—how could he forget with Peter’s constant chastisement for living in the past?—but  he can’t help it. The aftermath of the fire was bearable only because he and Laura still had eah other.  Now he’s on his own, and the ghost of his sister in her old room is as close as he’s going to get to the confidant he wants.

  _It was supposed to be you. You never would’ve needed some hyperactive teenager to point out that you were fucking up the abuse victim in your pack.  You would have had the follow-through to make them a family. You were always the one who was good at talking and bonding and making people feel wanted; I just followed your lead.   I knew the ones who needed a place, but I don’t know how to make them a pack.  I’ve already lost two of them, got them started in this life and now they’re off on their own because I can’t get my shit together long enough to make them stay.  What the hell kind of alpha am I if my recruited Bites leave but Peter’s involuntary one sticks around? Seriously?_

_I needed a pack; they did too.  I was trying to help. Maybe they’d’ve been better off without me._

He knows Laura is dead and gone.  There is no way she can answer him. The thing is, they’d spent so much time together those years after the fire, he can still hear her voice in his head at moments like these. 

He closes his eyes, and he’s sitting on the couch in their New York apartment.  She’s just come in from work.

_Oooh a pity party! Can I join in?  You know how much I love pity parties, Derek._

_Shut up. It’s not a pity party._

_Sure seems like one.  I better break out the ice cream, just in case._

He would’ve protests. She forces a carton of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food in his hand anyway as she exuberantly digs into her own container of Brownie Batter.

_So this whole Alpha thing is harder than you thought. Big deal.  You’ve been working on everything else wolf-related since you were born.  This is totally new.  It’s not the end of the world if it takes a little time to adjust. Lots of things about being a werewolf are harder than born wolves think.  How many time did mom say that when when we had new Bites around? And sure, it was supposed to be me, but not for the next two or three decades.  I wasn’t exactly stellar my first year being your alpha. We fought all the time. The only reason you didn’t leave is because I was all you had left, and you’re all they have now.   You owe it to them to keep trying because they need a good alpha and if you back down they get Peter or you shove this on Isaac.  We both know either of those arrangements would make the pack an even easier target.  You just have to learn by doing, and if that means you occasionally miss things and have to listen to overactive sixteen-year-old humans sometimes, then that’s what you do.  You’re a Hale, bro; act like it.  You gotta suck it up, buttercup._

_You’re even annoying from beyond the grave._

_I’m your big sister. It’s my job._

_I miss you._

The sound of Stiles coming back in the house jarrs him from his thoughts.  He can  hear the teen putting the computer back in the library, anticipating Scott’s return so they can leave.  Derek stands and walks out onto the landing.

“Oh my god,” Stiles yelps when notices Derek above him.  “You know that’s creepy as hell, right?”

Derek says nothing, just starts down the stairs.

“Seriously, is your creepiness like a born-werewolf thing? Or are you just weird?”  Stiles turns toward the door. “Not that your brooding silence doesn’t make for good company, but I think I’ll chill on the porch to wait for Scott.”

“They’re almost back,” Derek replies, tilting his head slightly to try and pinpoint more accurately how far off the wolves are.

They’ve done their laps quicker than he expected.  If he had to guess, he’d say they cut a corner off the second lap; that’s what he and Laura used to do.  He’d call them on it, but he doesn’t feel like it’s worth the fight right now.  He follows Stiles out onto the porch and fixes them with a disapproving glare.  Jackson seems entirely unaffected.  The guilty look on Scott’s face is a confirmation that they shirked off part of the work. It’s the way Isaac’s heart rate rabbits in fear that bothers Derek though.  How could he not have noticed Isaac’s behavior before? Well, he’d noticed, but how could he not realize what it meant?

“Jackson, you can go home; I need to talk to Isaac a minute, so I’ll drop him at the Kincaids’ myself. Stiles and Scott, you can go too. Let me know if you find anything useful, Stiles.” Isaac’s heart rate is steadily increasing so Derek turns his attention back to him.  “I’m not pissed at you, Isaac.  I just need to talk to you a minute.”

“Okay,” Isaac replies, but his pulse doesn’t slow much.

Stiles is looking at him with surprise clearly written on his face, but by the time he climbs into his Jeep with Scott he’s smiling smugly.  Derek fights the urge to roll his eyes at him.  The cars leave, but Isaac still hasn’t moved from his spot in the yard.

“So what’s up?” he asks Derek, fidgeting slightly.

“I—” and here’s the trouble.  Derek doesn’t really know where to start. He needs something to relate this to. Something to help Isaac see where he’s coming from, why he’s been kind of an idiot.  “You had a big brother, right?” he finally says.

“Yeah,” Isaac replies, “Why?”

“When you were kids, if you swiped the last cookie or some of his stuff or whatever he’d probably pin your arm behind your back or something ‘til you gave it back?”

“Yeah, sure, sometimes.”

“And it’d hurt right then, and ache a little after he let go, but it wasn’t like it really hurt you?”

“Sure, Derek, what’re you—”

“My brothers and sisters were werewolves,” Derek interrupts, “at least most of them. We twisted arms ‘til they broke because it’d hurt, and then ache a little, but it wasn’t like a real lasting hurt.  It’s different—the way you think about breaking bones when you don’t grow up human. It’s just not that big a deal.   I forget sometimes that context for stuff isn’t the same for turned wolves.  Even though you heal faster now, you still think in human terms of broken bones being a big deal. It takes you a while to see through the werewolf filter.” He pauses; Isaac still looks vaguely confused.  “You get what I’m saying?” he asks hopefully.

“That you breaking my arm—breaking Jackson’s—it’s like a big brother thing?”

“Something like that. Just—I don’t want you to think I’m like you’re—”

“You’re not like my dad,” Isaac assures him. “I know that.”

 “Good.” He pulls his keys from his pocket. “Get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

They ride in silence most of the way to the Kincaids’. Mrs. Kincaid had been best friends with Isaac’s mother before she’d died.  They offered to take Isaac in for his last few years of high school to keep him from being put into the foster care system when his dad died. Derek doesn’t really know much about the arrangement besides that.  He’s never asked, and Isaac never really talks about it.

“How is it? living with them?”

“They’re fine,” Isaac replies.  “Cindy thinks I’m on drugs or in a gang or in a cult or something; Mike tells her it’s probably just a phase and not to worry about it.  I’ve heard them talking about it a couple times.”

Derek raises an eyebrow.  “Oh.”

Isaac shrugs.  “I’ve been meaning to ask, if they try to get me tested or something, will my blood be different?”

“Not for a drug test.”

“Good.”

“But if they decide to give you one, the doctors send all their lab stuff over to the hospital for processing. Let me know so we can let Melissa McCall know to keep an eye on things, just to be on the safe side.”

“Right.”

They ride the rest of the way to the house in silence.  Derek isn’t sure if it’s just wishful thinking or if it seems like the silence is a little more relaxed than before. 

“Thanks for the ride.” 

“Sure.”

Isaac starts to walk away, but turns and sticks his head back through the open window. “And thanks for—uh—explaining and everything.”

Derek nods again gives a little bit of a smile. “No problem.”

“See ya later.”

Derek drives away with Laura’s voice in the back of his mind, _See, kiddo. You don’t suck so much after all._

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles checks his phone when it beeps from his desk.  It’s a text from Isaac, the only one not related to lacrosse or school he’s ever received from him.

 “Thanks,” Stiles reads from the screen.

“For what?” Stiles types back.

“Whatever you said to Derek.”

“Why would you think I said something to Derek?”

“Because no one else is dumb enough to try and tell him what to do.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”

Isaac never responds.  Stiles can’t help a small fist pump of triumph.  He thinks about sending Derek a gloating text but decides that would be counter-productive. 

Instead he settles on texting a simple, “Glad you talked to Isaac.”

Which of course gets no response, but it isn’t hard to imagine the perturbed glare Derek is probably giving his phone. 

“Don’t be a sourwolf. Admit it.  You’re glad I said something.”

No reply, but probably an intensified glare.

“I’m totally a pack asset. I am the werewolf whisperer.”

Nothing, but Derek is probably rolling his eyes now.

“Bet I could get a pretty sweet deal for a reality show on Animal Planet.”

Finally a reply, “Stiles, if you keep texting me stupid shit, I will come and rip your phone in half and shove it down your throat.”

Considering the endeavor to annoy a success and deciding against antagonizing Derek any further in favor of keeping his phone in one piece next time he sees the alpha, Stiles puts his phone back down on the desk and goes back to his homework. 

 


	3. Chapter 2

Three days later, Stiles’ jeep chokes to a stop just a few minutes after he leaves the grocery store.  He coasts to the side of the road muttering curses.  It doesn’t occur to him to really worry until the bright lights of a familiar SUV pull up behind him. He fumbles for his phone. When Scott doesn't pick up, he calls Derek.

“What do you want, Stiles?”

“Argents,” he replies hastily. “I went to the store. I think maybe they did something to my car; it stalled out, and they coincidentally were right behind me. Maybe it’s nothing, but I’m not a fan of the Argent basement, okay? So if you could get here—”

“Where are you?”

“Maple Street, between 7th and 8th Avenue.”

“I’m coming.”

He tries not to let the relief be too complete.  Assuming he’s coming from his apartment, Derek’s probably still ten minutes away.  A lot can happen in ten minutes, but at least someone’s coming—his  Alpha actually, and not that he would ever admit it to Derek in a million years, but there is something incredibly cool in that thought.  Chris Argent steps out of his car and walks up to Stiles’ window.  He taps on it lightly.

“Need a ride?”

“I’m good, thanks.  I called someone.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

“Man, I know how Argent hospitality works.  My pasty white ass is not moving from this seat.”

“I just want to talk.”

“So talk.”

“Stiles, he really just wants to talk,” says a voice from behind Chris.  Stiles hadn’t noticed Allison getting out of the SUV, but she’s now standing behind her father.  “Can’t you at least get out of the car?”

“Not in a million years.”

“If you can’t be reasonable and get out of the car to have this conversation with me, I’m afraid I’ll just have to speak with your father instead.”

Stiles narrows his eyes.  “You wouldn’t.”

“I’m concerned for your safety, and one parent to another, he deserves to know when his son’s life is in danger.  Of course, I’d rather we just had this discussion amongst ourselves.”

Stiles glances at his watch; it’s been three minutes since he hung up with Derek.  Allison, regardless of how psycho bitch she may have gone the past few weeks, doesn’t totally hate him. He is human, and Chris has a code. It isn’t worth risking Chris actually telling his dad anything.

“Take a couple steps back,” Stiles instructs.

“You really think that’s necessary?”

“My aversion to Argents is well-founded on _several_ different levels! Now if you want me out of the car, take a couple steps back.”

Chris nods and complies.

As Stiles opens the door of the jeep, Allison asks quietly, “Dad, what’s he talking about?”

“Oh they never told you about my pleasant stay at the Argent home the night of the playoff game?”

“You said that was kids from the other team.”

“What else was I going to say? I got beat up because my best friend’s a werewolf, and he heals too quickly to make hurting him any fun?”

“Stiles, what Gerard did—”

“Was fucked up,” Stiles interrupts, “kind of how you were going to beat Scott’s location out of me and Jackson at the hospital the night Derek killed Peter.  You’re all pretty screwed in the head, so let’s not pretend this is a friendly chat. Let’s skip the niceties and pretenses of you giving a shit about my wellbeing and skip to the part where you tell me whatever the hell was worth stalling my car out for.”

Stiles knows he’s probably pushing a little too hard, but he’s panicked to the point that either the fear or the anger was going to show, and he doesn’t like the idea of cowering to Chris Argent.

“You need to be careful,” Chris says.  “We know you’ve been out to Derek’s with Scott a few times this week.  We don’t want you making a choice you’ll regret.”

“Thanks for the advice. We done here?”

 “Derek uses the bite as a weapon, Stiles.  With a threat looming down on him, it’s even more dangerous.  You shouldn’t be out there with Scott. I know he’s your friend, but Derek—”

“You think he’s going to turn me?

“I think it’s a very real possibility. It’s too dangerous for a human to be surrounded by an entire pack—”

“He won’t turn me.”

“He’s not Scott.”

“Yeah, I’m clear on that.  He’s not Peter either.” Chris’ words register in Stiles mind.  “Wait, you said he uses it as a weapon.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“You mean because of Victoria.” It was more a statement than a question. 

“He tries to pretend it’s a gift, Stiles, but him turning my wife just proves that he realizes it’s a curse.  Otherwise he’d have killed her outright. Instead he—”

“He was a little preoccupied with saving Scott to give a fuck about doing anything but getting Victoria the hell away from them.  Did she tell you what she was doing that night? Why Derek bit her?”

“He’d already tried to get past us.  The group was too big. He saw her as a weak point.”

“She wasn’t patrolling with the rest of you.  She was in a back room of the warehouse poisoning Scott,” Stiles replies.

“That’s not—”

“Go look up the street cameras if you don’t believe me. I’m sure you’ve got access to a few.  Check her old stash of wolfsbane and the front bumper of the SUV.  She hit him with her car. She dragged him inside, and then she put some of her favorite kind of wolfsbane in a vaporizer.  Two for one since she liked the smell and it would make it look like Scott died of an asthma attack.  She read his file at school, knew he used to have a pretty bad case of it.”

Chris slams Stiles up against his Jeep before Stiles can react.  “How _dare_ you desecrate her memory by claiming—Victoria would never—we have a code!”

“ _You_ have a code,” Stiles corrects, “but the others aren’t much better than the uncontrollable rabid wolves you like to talk about. If it hadn’t been for Derek, Scott would’ve been murdered.  In fact, Derek’s saved our asses a couple times now, so I’m sorry if I’m not buying your ‘stay away; werewolves are dangerous’ story.  So far the only killer wolf I’ve met was Peter Hale, and I’m pretty sure his issues started with Kate.  Between Kate, Victoria, and Gerard, I’m not so sure werewolves are the ones I should be scared of.”

His grip on Stiles’ shoulder tightens as he shakes Stiles.  “You watch your mouth, you little—”

“Dad—” Allison protests.

With a squeal of tires, Derek’s Camaro comes flying around the corner a few blocks down.  Stiles can’t stop the smile that spreads across his lips at the look of fury on Chris’ face.

“Better watch yourself, Chris,” Stiles says.  “Don’t think my Alpha’d appreciate you roughing me up for no good reason.  That’s his job.”

“Your—”

“Alpha,” Stiles confirms with a nod.  “Wanna let me go now?”

“You’re making a mistake, Stiles.”

“My mistakes are my business, not yours.

 “Stiles, what are you _thinking_?” Chris demands, slamming his hand into the jeep right beside Stiles’ head..

 “Back off, Argent,” Derek thunders as he gets out of his car, eye flashing red.

Chris slowly releases his hold on Stiles and backs up as Derek closes the distance between them.  Stiles has to admit that it’s kind of great to watch Chris continue backing off warily.

 “He’s Hale Pack now,” Derek asserts, eyes still glowing.  “You mess with him, you mess with all of us.”

 “I wasn’t going to hurt him.  I just wanted to talk.”

 “I don’t care. You leave him alone from now on. You want to talk to him or any of my other betas, you do it through me.”

Chris clearly has more to say and doesn’t want to back down.  Derek definitely isn’t going anywhere.  After a few moments more of terse silence, Chris walks away, and Allison follows.  He turns just as he gets to his SUV.

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Stiles,” he warns.  “It’s not too late; we can help you.”

A growl rumbles in Derek’s chest, and Stiles wonders briefly if growling while human was a nifty Alpha trick or a born werewolf trick.

“Give it up, dude,” Stiles says to Argent.  “I don’t need help.”

“Just think about what you’re doing,” Allison urges.  “You’re still human, Stiles. You have a choice. You don’t have to be mixed up in this.”

Stiles gives no response, just attempts to mirror Derek’s glare as the Argents get into their vehicle and pull away.  Once they turn the corner, both Stiles and Derek visibly relax.

“Thanks, dude. I owe you one,” Stiles says slapping a hand on Derek’s shoulders which he quickly removes when it’s received with a pointed glare.

“No, you don’t.  You’re pack now. We look out for our own.”

         

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************              

 

Stiles grabs a flashlight from his glove box, walks around to the front of his Jeep, and lifts the hood.  Derek follows.  As Stiles begins searching for the cause of the stall out, Derek debates saying anything else at all, but he feels like he needs to address the issue at hand, if only to make sure Stiles understands what he’s doing.

“You called me your Alpha,” Derek replies.

 “You heard that?  Oh, right, freaky werewolf hearing.”

 “No, it’s not the hearing.”

 “Then what freaky werewolf power did you use?”

This is the bit of being an Alpha to a human that is going to be even more difficult than being alpha to the other werewolves.  Derek has no frame of reference for being human; Stiles has no frame of reference for being a wolf.  Stiles is going to hate Derek trying to explain that  He isn’t looking forward to the sharp sarcasm Stiles will no doubt dole out every time Derek tries to explain that he just _knows_ some things.  Something Stiles will quickly file under the “freaky werewolf power” category and demand more explanation of.

“It’s—hard to explain.”

“Try.”

 “There are certain things you ju _st feel_ when you’re a werewolf that human perception can’t pick up on.  There’s a pack connection.  It’s not exactly the same with human members as it is with the wolves, but an alpha can feel when the pack grows or shrinks.  You must have called me your Alpha and meant it. That kind of thing strengthens the pack.”

Stiles stops fixing the Jeep and turns to Derek.

“I didn’t really think about it. I knew calling you my alpha would make him back off a little. I knew it would unsettle him. I wasn’t really thinking in terms of officially joining already or anything.”

Derek says  nothing. Stiles continues, “but you felt it? That’s weird dude. Felt it how? Like did I just make it official ahead of schedule?”

“It’s something weak,” Derek replies.  “The word-bond is just the first step. Blood-bonds are much stronger and more permanent.  That’s when you can tell a real difference.”

“Blood?” Stiles asks, heart rate jumping. “Like getting turned?”

“No, it’s different for humans; think of it like the blood brothers thing human friends do.”

“Wouldn’t that turn me though?”

“It’s not sharing blood. It’s a shallow scratch instead of a bite, but it makes a link to the pack.”

“You did something like that to Jackson—when he had that scratch Kate thought had turned him.”

“That was different. It wasn’t intentional.”

“So back to the painless word-bond part of things,” Stiles says, turning his attention back in his Jeep.  “That sounds—interesting. The loyalty strengthens the pack. So the more I say it the stronger it gets?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s cool I guess.”

Derek shrugs.  Stiles locates the device Argent had planted in the engine.  He examines it a moment and tosses it aside.  He shuts his hood and walks back to the driver’s side.  Derek walks back toward his own car.

 “Thanks again, dude,” Stiles says.

“Don’t make it a habit,” he says as he gets in the car.

He waits for Stiles to start his Jeep and get back on the road before starting the Camero and heading back toward his apartment.  He’s nearly there when Stiles calls him again.  He pulls over to turn around as he answers.

“Are they back?”

“No, no. Everything’s cool. I just wanted to ask you something.”  Derek waits for Stiles to ask, but Stiles apparently expects some kind of verbal recognition before continuing because he asks, “Are you there?”

Derek rolls his eyes.  “ _Yes_ , Stiles, what do you want?”

“So I was just wondering. What if—what if I wanted to tell my dad?”

Derek stops himself from giving an immediate no at the idea of telling a non-pack human anything about the pack.  The Sheriff is important to Stiles. The two have a good relationship.  This deserves consideration.

_Look at you being all reasonable and logical; there’s hope for you yet, little bro._

“Why tell him now?” Derek asks.

“Argent threatened to tell him about everything.  Now all I can think is what if he really did? Or what if my dad finds out some other way? It’s already killing me to lie to him so much. He’s not an idiot; he knows something’s up.  If he finds out from somebody who isn’t me, it’d wreck him.  He’d never trust me again.”

When Derek doesn’t respond immediately Stiles adds, “I mean I know it’s a big deal, but, before I can even really think about making this pack thing permanent, I have to know if I could tell him.  He’s all I—he’s my dad, ya know?”

 _He’s all you’ve got left_ Derek thought, _it’s okay to say that, Stiles. It’s okay to be scared of losing him._

“It’s entirely up to you,” Derek says. 

“So I could tell him?”

“Yes.”

“I could tell him everything. Just go home, right now and tell him? That’d be okay?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” 

Derek considers hanging up, assuming the conversation is done.  He pulls over so he can turn around again. 

“What if I tell him and it gets him killed?”

Derek closes his eyes for just a moment before he pulls back onto the road and counters, “There’s no guarantee keeping this a secret will keep him safer.”

“So you think I should tell him?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“I want to know.”

Derek knows having the sheriff involved could make things much more complicated. He knows that Stiles’ dad will start paying even more attention to everything Stiles does.  He knows that Sheriff Stilinski is not a man to leave his son to go through this alone, and it will be difficult to keep him out of the fray once he realizes what kind of danger Stiles might be in. The sheriff will need some time to fully process the truth if Stiles tells him, but he won’t shy away like Melissa McCall.  He’ll barrel forward right alongside Stiles, taking things in stride as he figures them out. 

Derek knows because Stiles is lucky enough to have a father like Derek’s.

And Derek’s dad had _always_ wanted to know and help with _anything_ Derek was going through—had told him so countless times as distance had grown between them those months before the fire. And maybe if he’d told his dad the truth, told his dad what was going on—told him where he went when he was out past curfew, told him about the girl whose scent was always on his clothes,  told him about the bar he met her at when Laura flirted with the bouncer to get him in even though he was just sixteen—maybe then his whole family wouldn’t be…

“Derek, I want to know what you think,” Stiles insists from the other end of the line, jarring Derek from his thoughts.

And even if telling his dad wouldn’t have saved his family, Derek at least wouldn’t feel like such a shitty son for leaving the house that morning without speaking to his dad, pissed because he was grounded for missing curfew to hook up with Kate the night before.

“If it were me, I’d tell him. You dad would want to know,” Derek answers.

Stiles is silent a moment on the others end, a sure sign that he’s worried and taking this seriously. “Yeah, okay—I think—I think I will—I don’t know when, but maybe soon, I’ll see if—I’ll just see how things go.”

“Okay,” Derek says because Stiles seems to be waiting for some kind of answer from him.

“Right, well, I’m home so…later or whatever.”

Derek hangs up the phone, drawing a deep breath.

_Why does every fucking conversation with this kid have to get me thinking about my family?_

But he knows it isn’t just Stiles, it’s this whole town.  Watching school let out when he picked up one of the Betas up in the afternoon just made him flash back to fighting with Laura over who got to drive the family Honda home that day.  The ice cream shop downtown he’d always take Madison and Alex whenever he got stuck baby-sitting.  His family’s favorite pizza place. _Everything_ in this town has some kind of Hale family story to go with it.  He hates and loves it—wishes he was better at keeping the memories in check.  This is exactly why he and Laura stayed away so long. 

             

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************     

 

“Dad?” Stiles calls through the house.  “I’m back.”

“Perfect timing,” his dad replies, coming from the kitchen to help with the grocery bags Stiles is carrying.  “Chili’s just about done.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says with a smile, even though it will be less awesome four days from now when they’re still eating leftover chili because his dad always seems to cook for twenty when there’s just the two of them.

They put the bags of groceries down on the counter.  Stiles puts the milk and egg substitute in the fridge, grabs a bottle of water for himself and a diet coke for his dad, and puts them on the table.  His dad starts ladling out two bowls of chili.  They’ve been sitting at the table eating for a few minutes before his dad breaks the silence Stiles hadn’t noticed.

“Everything okay?”

_Not really. I’m trying to decide if I should mention to you that my best friend is a werewolf and we’re thinking of joining a pack so we’re a little less likely to get mauled to death by alphas._

“Yeah, I’m fine. How was work?”

His dad gives him a long look, a look that clearly states he’s well aware his son is lying to him. Stiles hates that look.  It used to just be a look with just a little bit of disappointment that Stiles wasn’t being truthful.  Nowadays there’s some definite hurt mixed in with it.  Because his dad’s a fucking cop.  _Of course_ he knows something’s going on in Stiles’ life, and he knows Stiles is choosing not to talk to him about it.  Stiles looks down at this bowl because he can’t meet his dad’s eyes.

 “Work was fine,” his dad answers. “Nothing out of the ordinary. How was school?”

“Same.”

Stiles can’t get his mind to focus on the conversation at hand. Now that he knows telling his dad the truth is an option—hell Derek even recommended it—he can’t stop thinking about it, and he can’t figure out if he should blurt it all now before he loses his nerve or try and plan out what to say.   What if his dad doesn’t believe him? What if he takes it badly like Ms. McCall had a first? What if he tells Stiles he has to stay away from the Pack?

“Stiles,” his dad says, and Stiles looks up. The level of his voice makes it clear the sheriff’s said the name a few time before his son responded.

“Yeah?”

“You _sure_ you’re okay?”

"Yeah, Dad, I’m just—you know what—actually, no.” And apparently Stiles mouth has decided it‘s time to blurt the truth whether his mind is ready or not.

“No?”

“I mean, I’m mostly okay, but there’s stuff going on and—and I think—I think I owe you the truth about some things.”

His dad raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised at that answer.

“And it’s gonna sound crazy okay? Like call the psych ward crazy, and maybe you’re gonna be really pissed I didn’t tell you before but I need you to hear me out on this.  Just—I’m gonna barrel through it because I don’t know how else to do it and I don’t—I don’t want to lie to you anymore, okay?”

“Okay, Stiles.”

And so Stiles starts at the beginning, the night his dad found him in the woods, looking for a dead body, and how Scott had most definitely been there, been bitten, and their lives had never been the same.  His dad stops him a few times to clarify, but, as requested, he isn’t commenting, just hearing Stiles out.  Stiles has already  made his way through a whole 2-liter of root beer and his dad is working on his fifth—sixth?—cup of coffee when Stiles concludes, “So we’re with Derek’s Pack now, it’s kind of a trial run I guess.  I think it’s actually gonna be all right though, like I think it might actually work. I mean, we’ve got to deal with all this crazy stuff so maybe if we all work together we can actually come out okay in the end.”

His dad nods, as he’s been doing for most of the conversation.  He takes a deep breath and runs his hand over his face, the same way he does when he’s been looking at a case file too long and the pattern still isn’t making sense.  Stiles waits for the inevitable blast wave; he still isn’t sure if it’s going to be anger at being lied to or questions regarding his sanity.

He’s beyond flabbergasted when his dad looks him in the eye and says, “I’m proud of you, Stiles.”

“I—what?” Stiles asks, jaw dropping in disbelief.  “You’re not pissed at me?”

“You’ve done what you thought was right, stood by your friends, protected people.  You’re more of a hero than you probably realize.  I just wish you’d have told me the truth sooner.  It’s a lot to take on by yourself, kiddo, and you should know you can tell me _anything_.”

“I—Dad—I—thanks,” Stiles finally chokes out, and he doesn’t mean to start crying; he really doesn’t.  It’s just that after everything he totally deserves to be yelled at or called crazy or _something,_ not earnestly congratulated and offered help.

He clearly has the best damn father in the universe.

He wonders vaguely why he ever doubted that.  He manages to keep the waterworks to just several manly (enough) tears.  His dad walks around the table and claps a hand down on Stiles’ shoulder.

“So you believe me?” Stiles asks looking up at him, “you don’t want to ask or see them change or—”

“Oh, this conversation isn’t over,” his dad assures him, “but right now, it’s four in the morning, and I think I need a little sleep before I tackle this thing head on with you.  You should get some sleep too.”

“Yeah, probably a good idea.”

“You tell Derek I want him here at noon for lunch,” he adds as he walks away.

“What?”

“If you’re planning to be in his pack or whatever you call it, I think he and I need to have a conversation.”

“Dad, I don’t know if he--”

“That wasn’t a request, Stiles. You’re sixteen years old, so, if you’re going to be in his pack, he’s going to have to talk to me first.”

“Right. I’ll tell him.”

“Good. We’ll pick this conversation up in a couple hours. I’m calling in sick; you’re staying home from school.  I’ll write you an excuse. ”

His dad starts towards his bedroom as Stiles starts taking their dirty dishes to the sink.

“Hey, Dad?” he calls, just before the bedroom door shuts.

“Yeah?”

Stiles walks out to the hall so he can look his dad in the face.  “I’m really sorry I lied to you. I wanted to tell you. I just—I didn’t want to put you in the middle of it.”

His dad purses his lips and crosses the space between them to hug his son tightly.  “It’s okay,” his father assures him.  “You’ve told me now; that’s what really counts, and from now on we’re gonna figure things out together, okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees.

They hold the embrace a few more moments before letting go.  Stiles can’t keep the small smile off his face as he goes up to his room.  At least for the moment, the fear of having his dad involved is far outweighed by the relief of having his dad in his corner again.

_Yeah, definitely the best damn father in the universe._

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek grabs his phone just before it buzzes its way off the edge of the nightstand. 

“It’s four in the morning, Stiles; you better be dying,” Derek mutters grumpily, but he’s already sitting up and reaching for his jacket, just in case.  Having a human in the pack is stressful; there’s so much less time for error when humans get hurt.

“I know it’s late, but I told my dad. I figured you should know.”

“Oh,” Derek replies, mildly surprised by how glad he is to hear that.

“He actually took it pretty well.  You’re supposed to come for lunch tomorrow—today--whatever. Noon.”

“Stiles—”

“Hey, you’re the one who said I could tell him, and now he wants to meet you if I’m gonna be in your pack.”

“He’s met me already.”

“Yeah, when he _arrested_ you.  Doesn’t really count.”

“Stiles—”

“Look, my dad calmly accepted that I’d been running around with werewolves all this time and lying to his face, so I don’t really care if you want to come to lunch or not.  Suck it up, buttercup.”

Hearing that phrase from someone who isn’t Laura catches him off guard; he realizes just how long it’s been since he actually heard anyone say it out loud to him.  It shouldn’t send a weird pang of pain through him, but it kind of does.

“Fine,” Derek snaps back.  “Don’t call me buttercup.”

“Don’t be a sourwolf.”


	4. Chapter 3

“Sheriff,” Derek greets with a nod.

“Derek,” he replies, stepping to the side of the door.  “Come on in.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to drown in the awkwardness that is about to ensue.  He stays in the kitchen, stalling for a few extra minutes by pretending the chili on the stove isn’t reheated yet.  When his dad comes in to get Derek a glass of water, he looks at Stiles knowingly.

“Come on, kiddo, get the lead out and come to the table.  He’s _your_ friend.”

“No, he’s my alpha; there’s a difference,” Stiles mutters. 

 “Stiles, just bring the chili to the table,” his dad orders, exasperated.

When Stiles enters the room with the food, his dad is thanking Derek for coming over on short notice.  It’s clear already that this is essentially going to be a terse talk about who gets to make more rules for Stiles. His sneaker catches on the edge of the rug under the table, and he stumbles. Derek grabs the pot from his hands before it can spill and places it quickly on the potholder set out on the table.

“Show off,” Stiles mutters, which earns him a customary glare from Derek.

“ _Stiles,”_ his dad scolds.

“Thanks,” Stiles huffs.  “But seriously, not my fault I don’t have super-spidey senses to use to catch things.”

“Did you burn your hands?” the Sheriff asks Derek.

“They’re fine. Already healing.”

“Oh,” he replies, clearly trying to pretend it is no big deal because, to Derek and Stiles, it isn’t. Stiles can see on his dad’s face that he realizes he’s getting the first glimpses of some extraordinary truths about living with werewolves that will soon be commonplace to him too.

“So food, yeah?” Stiles says, breaking the moment because God knows Derek isn’t going to say anything.

“Yeah,” his dad agrees.

They all sit and begin ladling chili into the bowls set out on the table.  It grants them a few moments of distraction before the awkward silence resumes.

“So, Derek, you’re in charge of this Pack Stiles is thinking of joining?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Sheriff nods. “And you think you can handle that?”

“I do.”

“Stiles told me about the alpha pack.  You think you can keep them safe with that hanging over your heads? _All_ of them?”

“If you’re asking if Stiles gets the same priority as the werewolves, they’re _all_ pack. No special treatment, but of course I realize that as a human he’s in more immediate danger of injury.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone, I know,” Stiles interjects. "Can we please stop talking about this like I’m a five-year-old and this is a custody battle? I can take care of myself.  I’ve saved your ass a couple times, O Mighty Alpha, and I’ve been running around with werewolves for a while now, Dad.  I’m not entirely incapable here.”

“So he’s taught you how to defend yourself?”

“Yeah, and so have you, Dad. I’ll be fine. I’m _not_ the damsel in distress here.”

“Stiles says you’re training them,” the Sheriff says to Derek who nods.

“Basic self-defense. Learning how to fight as a pack.”

“What about weapons?”

“I know how to shoot a gun,” Stiles replies indignantly, still pissed that he’s only half included in this conversation.

“Have you got one loaded with wolfsbane bullets? That’s the weakness right?”

“ _Of course_. I run around with werewolves; I’d be an idiot not to.”

His dad nods his approval, but the glare he gets from Derek reminds him that Derek isn’t aware of that fact.

“I think I could help you training Stiles and Lydia how to shoot.  I can get them some time on the range the station uses.”

Derek hesitates just a moment.

“Son, you want one Stilinski in your pack, you have to deal with two,” the Sheriff says firmly.  “If my son is putting his neck on the line, you better believe I’m going to do everything within my power to help him.  Better get that through your mind right now.”

Derek looks at the sheriff in the eye a moment or two longer and then nods.

“We’d appreciate your help with that, and Stiles will be sure to train you the best ways to safely use the wolfsbane and get you some bullets of your own.”

Stiles is impressed overall at just how well Derek’s been asserting authority without being disrespectful.  Stiles has to give Derek props for the subtle reminder that this is a two-way street.  Even though he’d just found out a few moments ago that Stiles even kept the bullets, this is a clear way to assert that the pack knows things the Sheriff doesn’t.  It isn’t wasted on his father, who is now giving Derek and evaluating stare.

“Right,” the sheriff replies.

The rest of the meal is mostly eaten in silence. There is the occasional question from the Sheriff to Stiles or Derek, but no other real conversation.  Stiles is trying hard not to fidget excessively, which is easier said than done.  He really just wants this whole awkward meeting to be over before his dad asksfor a permission slip to sign so that Stiles could go out on wolfy adventures.  While he does feel guilty he’s been lying to his dad all this time, the point still stands that he’s made it this far without him.  He can make decisions for himself.  He doesn’t deserve to be treated like a little kid by either of them.

“I’d better be going,” Derek says as they finish eating.  “Thank you for lunch.”

“Any time,” the Sheriff replies, as both men stand.  “Glad you could make it.”

Derek shakes the hand the sheriff offers and starts toward the door.  Stiles knows that look on his dad’s face; he can feel another battle for the Stiles-best-interest high ground coming on.  It’s all he can do not to groan out loud

“One last thing before you go, Derek.”

Derek turns and raises an eyebrow in question.

“My son is currently both alive and human,” his dad says.  “I expect you to help keep him that way.”

Stiles can see the clench of Derek’s jaw.  The alpha takes a breath, seems to be warring with a decision—probably whether to stay respectful or just say to hell with it and go full threatening asshole alpha—and  then he takes a few determined steps back toward the Sheriff. 

“I think we need to clarify something here, Sheriff.  You may be Stiles’ father, but I’m his Alpha.  He wouldn’t be part of my pack if I didn’t intend to do everything in my power to keep him safe.  You don’t have to tell me to protect my pack; that instinct is quite literally in my blood.  I understand that you’re concerned, but you’re going to have to trust me.  You’re not the only one with Stiles’ best interests in mind.  He means a lot to this pack, and this pack means a lot to him.  This isn’t some high school sports team; we’re trying to keep each other alive, and we feel the gravity of the situation even more than you do.”

And wow that’s maybe the most Stiles had heard Derek say at one time since—ever.  And it’s a pretty awesome assertion of competency.

“He is my son.”

“And he’s all you have left.  I understand that, but he’s also not a kid anymore.  If you won’t trust me, trust him.  He knows what he’s a part of and what’s at stake.  You really think he’d join a pack he didn’t trust to have his back?”

“Derek’s right, dad,” Stiles agrees,  liking this Stiles-isn’t-a-total-idiot argument. “We know this is life and death.  You don’t have to remind us.  Derek takes this stuff seriously.”

“You say that, but do you really think a group of kids can--”

“ _Yes_ , dad,” Stiles says, voice more confident that he feels most of the time.  “We can handle it. As a matter of fact, we’ve handled several life-threatening moments already.  You don’t need to hit overprotective mode right now.  You met Derek; you know about the alphas; you’re going to help with training. You’re about ten times more involved than Ms. McCall is. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future to question our judgment and competency.  Could you please chill out for the time being?”

“Fine,” his dad replies, his jaw set in a way that clearly states he had more to say but is restraining himself.  “We’ll resume this conversation when we need to.”

“Stiles, can I talk to you outside for a second?” Derek requests.

“Yeah sure.”

Stiles is counting this as a win as he walks out the door with Derek:  No cursing, No bloodshed, no heart attacks or strokes.  They pause about halfway to Derek’s car.

“So thanks again for coming.  I know he’s kind of annoying with all the don’t-get-Stiles-killed stuff, and he’s probably going to be nosey as hell, but he’s—”

“He’s just being a dad,” Derek replies with a shrug.  “I know.” There’s a sad look on Derek’s face for just a second, and Stiles suddenly remembers with a hollow feeling in his gut that Derek used to have a dad too. “Just remind him that pack is family too.”

“However dysfunctional it may be,” Stiles adds.  Derek nods, and the edge of his lip quirks just a bit in what might have been a smile on anyone else’s face. “And by the way, if you did more stuff like what you did in there—that whole bit about me not being a kid and knowing who to trust—it’d probably work a lot better towards the whole pack bonding thing that the usual glares and growls.”

Stiles gets only a glare in reply.

“Yeah see, that look right there.  Not feeling the pack love, man.  You should work on that.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“You’re the one who wanted to talk to me.”

“You have a gun with wolfsbane bullets.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Since when?”

“Since the night you came to kill Lydia and all we had was Allison’s little pea-shooter of a crossbow. You’re not gonna get all mopey about this are you?”

“How’d you get the bullets?”

“Allison snuck one a couple from her house so I could see how they were made.   I ordered some wolfsbane off some random place online and made them myself.”

Derek nods again, and if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say the wolf looked impressed.

“Could you make more?”

“Yeah, sure, the only limit is how much wolfsbane and ammo I can afford, which given that I’m sixteen with a gas-guzzling jeep isn’t much.”

“I can help with that.  I’ll get Lydia a gun too.  You’ll show her how to make the bullets. She’s not pack; I can’t make her come to training, but she should be able to defend herself.”

“Sure, but it’s not my fault if she shoots Peter for being a creep.”

“Peter’s your packmate,” Derek chastises without much conviction; Stiles doesn’t apologize for the comment.

Derek looks back at the house.  “You have a basement?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Make yourself an armory.”

“Are you serious?”

“Now your dad knows about the pack, you won’t have to hide it from him.  He’ll probably even help you.  Make and keep your bullets there.  Talk to Deaton about the mountain ash and make a barrier around the basement.”

“So not just an armory, a safe room.”

Derek nods. 

“Good idea.”

“I know.”

“It’ll take a little while to get it together.”

“Tell me if you need help with the money.”

“That’s the second time in one conversation you’ve offered to help pay for stuff. What gives? You don’t even have a job, dude.”

“I have a trust fund and insurance money,” he replies.  “It goes to help the pack, and you’re pack now.  Problem?”

“No complaints. Just curiosity.  It’s why you keep me around, remember? I’m inquisitive and like to collect information.”

“You’re nosey.”

“Inquisitive,” Stiles insists.

Derek rolls his eyes.  “Pack meeting at four tomorrow,” Derek says as he walks toward his car. “Your turn to pick up Isaac.  Endurance training, bring water and workout clothes.  Don’t be late.”

                       

 ******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

      

“Hey, Bobby,” Sam says as he answers the phone.  “What’s up?”

“You boys wrap up that haunted movie set yet?”

“Yes, sir, last night. You got something for us?”

“Maybe.  Got a few calls from folks about a streak of animal attacks running up through California.”

“It’s not just an animal?”

“That’s what I want you boys to find out.  Figured since you’re in the area you could look into it.”

“Sure thing. Let me grab something to write on.”

Ten minutes later Sam has the details written down and is packing up his bag so they can head out once Dean gets back from his night of post-ghost-vanquishing celebrations.  Sam’s mapping out the route they should take to the most recent attack locations when Dean walks in the door.

“Morning, Sammy,” Dean says with a grin.

“It’s past noon.”

“Whatever dude. What’s with the map? I thought we decided to hang around a little while?”

"Bobby called, thinks he’s got a case.”

Dean groans. “Damn it. Why don’t we ever get breaks when we’re somewhere cool? But nooooo, we gotta get back to back cases when we’re trying to stay in Hollywood and then get stuck doing a week of recon at places like the world’s second largest ball of twine.”  He starts packing his bag.  “What is it? Another salt ‘n’ burn?”

“He thinks it’s werewolves,” Sam replies, voice carefully even.

Dean pauses ever so slightly as he shoves a shirt in his duffle.  “We do deserve a break, ya know,” he says too casually.  “Why don’t we just tell Bobby to give somebody else a call?”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I said okay.”

“Yeah, but you say ‘okay’ like you’re just placating me.”

“Oooh, somebody’s pissed.  Bringing out the college boy vocabulary.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“What d’you want me to say, man? You’re just starting to lose the puppy dog eyes of doom, and now Bobby wants us to do a werewolf case? I just don’t want to sit with your pouty ass for the next week; sue me.”

Dean-speak for: _I’m worried about you man. I don’t like seeing you hurt. That whole ordeal with Madison wasn’t easy._ Sam appreciates the concern, but he doesn’t need Dean to pull the protective big brother act. He can handle himself.

“We’re working the case. I’m fine.  Besides, it’s a different species of werewolf.”

“There are multiple species of werewolves? Dad’s journal only talks about—”

“The journal also said killing Glen should’ve saved Madison,” Sam quips, an unfair low blow, but he doesn’t care right now.  “Bobby’s done his homework.  Speciation is a natural occurrence. Werewolves have been around a long time. It makes sense that there could be multiple species. It actually kind of explains why the lore can be so contradictory.”

“Okay then.  Different species. Different how?”

“More advanced, that’s all Bobby knows.  He gave me the name of a hunter who’s supposed to be up around here.  He apparently comes from a long line of werewolf hunters. I guess we’ll touch base with him, see what he knows?”

“Sure. What’s the name?”

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Argent,” an authoritative voice on the other end answers.

“Chris?” Sam asks.

“Who wants to know?”

“Bobby Singer said I should call you.”

“Who’re you?”

 “Name’s Winchester.” It isn’t really Sam’s way of speaking, but it’s the way Dad and Dean always introduce themselves. With a family like theirs, it usually holds some clout.

“John?”

Sam ignores the odd flip his stomach still does anytime someone says his father’s name.

“Sam.”

“What d’you want, Sam?”

“We think there’s some werewolf activity moving up through California.  Me and my brother are trying to track them, but we don’t know much about this kind of wolf.  Bobby says you’re the man to call for anything to do with werewolves.”

“I know the pattern you’re talking about,” Argent replies.  “I’ve been tracking it myself.”

“We don’t mean to step on your toes here, just wanted to be sure someone was looking into it.”

“You and your brother, you’re John Winchester’s boys?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. “I’d like to tell you we could handle ourselves, but our numbers are a bit—we’ve had some setbacks.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Where are you now?”

“Headed to North California.  Our best guess is that they’re going to jump to the Beacon Hills Preserve, but we don’t have anything concrete.”

“Good guess. They’re already here.”

“We can be there in five hours if you can use the help.”

“You got a map? See the town of Beacon Hills?”

“Once sec,” Sam requests. “Got it.”

“I’ll meet you outside town; there’s a diner off route 47 called Minnie’s.  I’m a local, so if you and your brother plan to hunt around here, you’re going to have to understand our Code first.”

Sam pauses, considering the proposal.  The last time they worked with another hunter, it ended with Gordon Walker getting his ass kicked. Then again, it had been a Winchester Win overall.  If Argent is on the trail anyway, starting off on Argent’s bad side isn’t going to get anything done. Worst case scenario, they meet with Argent and he’s a basket case. Then they’ll just have to figure a way around him.

“Minnie’s Diner on route 47, got it,” Sam says finally. “We’ll let you know when we’re close.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Is your father on this hunt?”

“No,” Sam still can’t quite expound on that subject with an even voice so he leaves his answer monosyllabic.

“See you in a few hours,” Argent says, and, if Sam didn’t know better than to speculate, he’d say Argent sounds relieved to hear John Winchester isn’t coming.  Sam wonders briefly why that might be but decides it probably isn’t worth dwelling on; plenty of people have grievances with his dad, Bobby and Ellen included.

“Next stop, Beacon Hills,” Dean says, giving the impala a little more gas and cranking the radio up.

 


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the gifset and line that started this whole thing in motion: http://zainclaw.tumblr.com/post/33160124169

  

“So what’s this Code you want to talk about? Dean asks as they settle down at the table with Argent after observing all the cautionary tests. 

“It’s not complicated.  Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.”

“We hunt those who hunt us,” Sam translates without thinking, ignoring the exaggerated eye roll his brother gives him.

“Exactly,” Argent confirms, clearly impressed.  “We don’t kill without proof of an attack on a human, and we don’t kill minors except in extreme cases.”

“Don’t you already know they’re going to kill if they’ve been turned?” Dean asks. “They can’t control it.  Their subconscious just starts attacking.  You can’t stop it.”

“You’re right if we’re talking about the lower species of werewolf that’s entirely driven by instinct.  They’re the most well-known.  It’s where most of the lore comes from, the silver bullets, the unavoidable change on the full moon. They have minimal pack interactions, most don’t even know they turn, just think they’re sleep-walking or something.”

Dean nods. “We’ve dealt with those before.”

“These higher species are clever enough to cover tracks, harder to kill. Silver stings a bit extra, but it barely slows the healing process.  They can control the shift. The full moon compels them, but they can shift at other times too. They’re definitely driven by instinct, and some allow that to entirely control their actions.  There’s been cases though, where a certain amount of control can be gained.  They can retain awareness of what they’re doing.”

“So it’s not the mindless killing of the lower species? They know what they’re doing?” Sam asks.

“Yes and no.  They can lose control and kill blindly, but they can also control it and target people if they choose to.”

“So these are even more dangerous then,” Dean says. “If they can plan out their attack and serve their own purposes.”

“They can be incredibly dangerous, especially if an entire pack is united in a goal of turning or killing targets.”

“They have packs?”

“Yes, there’s much more pack interaction at the higher level.  There’s alphas which are the strongest who can fully morph into wolves.  Betas can only shift into a human-wolf hybrid.  The more betas the stronger the pack, and the stronger the pack the stronger its alpha.  Omegas are lone wolves. They’re rare; they don’t survive long.”

“So this is a pack that’s been moving through the state?”

“Yes, a powerful one. I can’t be positive, but there’s a symbol left behind that corresponds to what the lore refers to as an Alpha pack.”

“An alpha pack? What’s that mean?”

“We don’t know exactly how the dynamics work, but they pull power from each other.  They’re nearly impossible to stop even though it’s likely no more than three wolves.”

“So what do they want?”

“I’m not sure yet.  That’s the first thing we have to know.  We’ve got a little time; they seem to circle in on a place before they attack, almost like they’re casing the town.  If we can figure out what they want, we may be able to find a way to stop them. I’ve got a few different theories but nothing solid; I’m still looking for the pattern.”

“I’m sure Sam could help you out,” Dean volunteers. “He loves research.”

Sam fights the urge to stomp his brother’s foot under the table.  Sure, he’s good at research, and he got stuck doing it when they were kids because it was the safer job for the younger brother.  It doesn’t mean he should _always_ be the one who gets stuck digging through bullshit websites and dusty books.  Dean could take a turn or two.

“I’d appreciate any help I can get, honestly,” Argent says.  “I’m used to a much bigger pool of resources, but recently—we’ve lost some people, and a lot of old connections have fallen through.  The Argent name doesn’t get the response it once did.”

Sam nods.  He’d called Ellen for some info on the Argents while they’d been on the road.  She could only give stories she’d heard at the bar, but the word is that both Argent’s sister and father had gone off the deep end and shot their family code all to hell.  Seemed a lot of people thought the Argents were a little too volatile to work with these days, and coming from hunters, that was really saying something.

“We’re happy to help,” Sam assures him.  “And we know you’re a local so how do you want us to handle interactions exactly? We don’t want to cause any trouble for you.”

“If you’re planning on blatant law-breaking, impersonating federal agents and the like, I’m going to ask we keep our public contact to a minimum.”

“We’d like to have the options of doing some investigating of our own,” Dean says. 

“We’ll keep it to phone contact?” Sam suggests. “You have a burner number?”

Chris nods.  “Before you stay, there’s one other thing.”

“Okay.”

“There’s another pack in Beacon Hills, a small one.  You’ll have to keep to our code.”

“You live here with a pack under your nose and don’t do anything about it?” Dean asks incredulously.  “There’s been animal attacks here the past couple years, a long time before the alpha pack headed this way.  Doesn’t that count as grounds to kill even under your code?”

“They’re teenagers mostly,” Argent explains. “The two adults are,” he seems to search for the right word, “exceptions.”

“I’m gonna need a little more to go on than that if we’re working in the same town as a whole damn pack and you don’t expect us to do anything about it,” Dean tells him.

“The old attacks were an werewolf named Peter Hale who survived the fire my sister set six years ago,” Argent says, “You’re not idiots; you looked into the family.  You know about Kate?” Both Winchesters nod.  “His family members burned to death in front of him.  It drove him mad.  He’s got a clean slate now.  I can’t in clean conscious ignore the fact that my sister, a hunter, made him what he was.  I’m not saying I trust him because I definitely don’t.  Any transgressions, he’s fair game.  To this point, it seems he’s regained enough of his sanity to stay in control.”

“And the other adult?”

“Derek Hale.  He’s the current Alpha, another survivor of the fire.  He just recently returned to Beacon Hills and started rebuilding the pack.”

“So he’s bitten humans?”

“Only the willing,” Argent justifies, “And one that is _possibly_ self-defense.”

“Self-defense? He bit a hunter?”

 “My wife.” There’s a pain and fury in Argent’s eyes as he says the words, but his voice remains even. “I can’t prove it was self-defense, but there were some things recently brought to my attention that suggest it may have been.”

“So if they’re all consensual or self-defense, he hasn’t technically violated the code,” Sam says.

Argent nods. “I don’t like it, but it’s not enough for me to take him out.  More importantly, if Derek is killed, one of the teens would likely become Alpha.”

Dean grimaces. “Teenage Alpha, now there’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Exactly. I don’t exactly enjoy sharing my town with a pack of werewolves, but they’re as little a threat to the town as possible.  They need a close eye kept to be sure they don’t get out of control, but they don’t deserve to be slaughtered.”

Dean doesn’t look happy with the idea of the pack, so Sam reminds him, “It’s not so different from the vampire nest in Red Lodge.  They could keep control; they weren’t hurting anyone.”

“Are they planning to take on the alpha pack too?”

“I would assume.  It’s on their territory; no doubt they’ve already issued some threat or challenge to the Hale Pack.”

“If we work with them, it may give us the advantage we need to beat the alphas,” Sam points out. “You think we could get them to agree to terms?”

 “I think it’s worth a shot,” Argent agrees. “I had a few terms I was planning to propose.  I can get you a copy to look at tonight; we’ll discuss any revisions we think are necessary tomorrow and meet with Derek tomorrow evening.  I think the sooner it’s taken care of the better.”

Sam nods.  “You have a way to contact the Alpha?”

“My daughter is in school with the betas.  I’ll send word with her.”

Dean clearly has an opinion he wants to share about the fact that Argent let his daughter attend school with werewolves, but thankfully he keeps it to himself.  Sam writes his email and phone number on a napkin and slides it across the table to Argent.  He and his brother stand to leave.

“We’ll get settled in a motel in town.  Send me the terms; call and let us know where we’re meeting the alpha.”

 “Boys, I’d encourage you to think long and hard about whether you can really handle abiding the code with the Hale Pack.  I was willing to kill my sister to keep the code; I wouldn’t hesitate with either of you.  I want that to be abundantly clear.”

“Crystal,” Dean confirms.  “If we don’t like the truce terms, we’ll head out of town first thing and leave it to you.”

Sam knows that’s a lie; if Dean really thought the Hale Pack was that much of a threat, he’d never walk, but from the first impression, Sam gets the feeling Chris Argent is a good man.  Sam doubts the pack is too much of a threat and he doesn’t expect anything in the truce terms that he and Dean couldn’t agree with. He’s guessing Dean’s come to the same conclusion

“Good,” Argent says with a tight smile.  “See you boys later.”

  

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Derek, I need to talk to you,” Stiles says as he, Scott, and Isaac get out of his Jeep.

Evidently Derek picked up on the seriousness in Stiles tone because there’s no huffing or rolling of eyes. 

“The rest of you, three laps to warm up,” Derek instructs. 

Stiles waits for the wolves to clear out before he speaks.  “Allison gave me a message for you from her dad. He knows about the alpha pack.  He wants to meet and discuss terms so we can have like a truce or something and us go after them together.  Allison said there’s two new hunters in town to help the Argents.  They know the code and say they’ll work with us if we work something out. They want to meet tonight at the warehouse where everything went down with Gerard. Guess they’re going for the cliché, overdramatic deal at dusk vibe.” 

Derek’s face doesn’t change much, but there’s some definite aggression in his eyes.

“I was thinking what if I go and talk to them?” Stiles asks. “See what they want? I mean, I’m human right, so they wouldn’t hurt me—probably.  And some of the pack could be nearby just in case, but it seems a lot smarter to send me than to send in a wolf outnumbered three to one by hunters.  Working with Chris for the kamina shit turned out okay.  Granted that was all kind of a clusterfuck in general. When the success of the fight involves the human having to randomly crash through a wall to hit the the bad guy with a Jeep then—”

“Would you shut up, Stiles?” Derek barks, “This is important.  I need to think for five seconds without your _constant_ commentary.”

“Jeez fine, got it, shutting up and going inside, O Mighty, Pensive Alpha.  Wouldn’t want to disrupt those super serious, stubborn, biased, territorial alpha brainwaves.”

“ _Stiles…”_

And yeah he’s pushing it and doesn’t really care to be slammed into a wall this afternoon so Stiles actually shuts up and makes his way up to the front porch, glad today is a research training day for him and not endurance training.  Last time Derek had him running laps with the others, and there was something incredibly depressing about the fact that on his two laps of the property he was lapped about a million times by the werewolves.  Following up running until he was dying by being pounded into the ground as he got human self-defense lessons wasn’t great either.  Sure it was important or whatever, but it was a lot more amusing to watch the rest of the pack get their asses handed to them than it was to be the one getting his ass kicked.

“So what’s up?” Isaac asks when the three return from their laps.

“The hunters want a truce,” Derek announces.  “They want to work together against the alphas, and they want to set terms tonight. I don’t think we can trust them, but I think they could be useful.  Stiles is going to see what they have to say.

“We’re sending _Stiles?_ ” Jackson whines at the same time Scott protests, “You can’t make Stiles go!”

“Stiles volunteered. It’s safer than sending in a wolf with that many hunters.  He’ll have his phone on in his pocket so we can hear everything that happens.”

“You really okay with this?” Scott asks, looking over at Stiles.

“Yeah, dude. I’m human. I’m the Sheriff’s kid.  I’ve got a whole pack of werewolves as backup just one shriek of terror away.  I’m good to go.”

 “Don’t be too much of an idiot. They’ll never take us seriously,” Jackson grumbles,

“The rest of you spar,” Derek instructs. “Stiles, get something to take notes with.  I’m going to give you _very specific_ guidelines for agreeing to _anything_ and you will _still_ bring the terms to me before anything is official.”

“Right-o, Fearless Leader.”

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Two hours later, Stiles is driving to the warehouse. 

“You have the list?” Derek demands, voice garbled because Stiles is on speaker phone so all the wolves can listen in once he’s inside. 

“Oh my god, _yes,_ I have the fucking list!” Stiles replies, thoroughly exasperated, “even though I told you I memorized the stupid thing, and before you remind me for the millionth time, I also remember that any impromptu revisions to the list will result in the ripping out of my throat with your teeth and or the wearing of my intestines like a necklace.  I’m not a total idiot. Give me some credit. It’ll be fine!”

_Assuming I don’t get shot or held hostage._

Stiles tries to convince himself they’re just worried about him and not actually concerned he’ll fuck everything up.  It’s totally plausible that that is the case, right? They’re just worried for his safety. Totally. That’s it.

 _They don’t think you’re going to fuck up because you’re not._ _You got this, Stilinski.  You hang out with werewolves and survive.  You hurl Molotov cocktails at pissed crazy alphas.  You can handle a conversation with a few hunters._

 He puts the Jeep in park and gets out, stowing his phone in the pocket of his hoodie.  He goes in slowly, unsure exactly where in the warehouse he is supposed to meet the hunters.  He’d assumed in one of the empty office rooms that still held tables, but, of course that would make too much sense.  He slowly opens the door to what he assumes is the main storage portion of the building.  When he hears the click of a gun being armed, he freezes.

“Hey, Mowgli,” a voice growls out as its owner steps from around the corner.  “Where’s your Alpha?”

“ _Mowgli_?” Stiles repeats. “Seriously, dude? That’s your tough threatening opening line? You should really work on your form—and you accuracy—you know Baloo was a bear right?”

This hunter seems to enjoy Stiles’ aptitude for sarcastic deflection of tension about as much as Derek does.  He glares at Stiles, gun still aimed at Stiles’ face.  “Answer the question.”

“You didn’t really expect him to walk into a meeting outnumbered three to one by hunters, did you?”

“So he threw you under the bus instead?  Glad to see you’re appreciated as part of the pack.”

“Our pack dynamics are none of your business, buddy.”

The man’s glare intensifies.  Stiles is pretty sure if this dude and Derek ever got into a glaring contest, the world just might explode.  There’s some serious anger management issues behind that look, so, naturally, Stiles goads the hunter further.

“You gonna chill out so we can start sorting through this treaty or would you like a few minutes more to hold you gun on a scrawny teenager to continuing feeding your power complex?”

The man takes a step forward, and Stiles brain reminds his mouth for the millionth time that taunting people who can kill him is probably not the best plan for long-term survival.

“Come on, Dean; don’t be a dick,” another man says, emerging from the shadows.  “We wanted a rep from the pack, and we got one.”

Stiles smiles.  This guy doesn’t seem half bad.  Maybe there is a shot in hell at this working after all. 

“I’m Sam,” the man introduces, walking over and offering a hand.

“Stiles,” he replies, shaking the hand offered.

“This is my brother, Dean,” Dean nods recognition but offers no hand to shake. He lowers his gun though, which Stiles takes as a good sign.  “Thanks for coming.  Let’s get down to this and see if we can’t work something out.”

The look on Dean’s face is doubtful, but Sam seems pretty genuine. Stiles will take what he can get.  Chris Argent appears with a chair and a crate to supplement the two crates already around the table meant to serve as seats.

“Down to business,” Stiles agrees, biting back a comment at how cliché the set up is, a lone table in the sketchy warehouse bathed in a circle of yellow light from one of the several bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. 

“Can you really represent the pack?” Dean asks.  “I mean, you’re human right? Isn’t it diff—”

“I’m pack, same as any of the others,” Stiles replies firmly, “and my alpha asked me to represent the pack.  If you want to negotiate, you do it through me.  We’re willing to hear you out. I’ll talk terms and the alpha gets final approval. You guys care to go first?”

“We’ve got a list,” Argent informs him, gesturing to the table.

Stiles takes the list, pulls a pen from his pocket, and begins reading.  He marks up the paper shamelessly, adding new terms he and Derek had talked about and rewording demands from the hunters.  He’s well aware of the looks the hunters are giving him.  No doubt they thought he would be any easy mark, high school kid here to negotiate with a bunch of seasoned hunters.

Clearly they’ve never met a Stilinski.

“Half these are out of the question entirely,” Stiles informs them, “and you should know that.  We’re here to make peace terms, not default to your authority.  You really expect us to turn on GPS in our phones to allow tracking our movement?”

“If we patrol, it will be useful to keep data of all our—”

“We’ll track it manually, thanks. We have a system in place you’re welcome to join in on.  If not, we’ll keep to our separate systems and share data. GPS is not happening.”

“Fair enough,” Sam concedes.

“There’s also no way we’re giving you permission to ‘restrain any of the wolves under threatening circumstances’.”

“That provision is meant to help us help you,” Chris explains.  “If we can restrain the werewolves if they’re being unstable, it would keep them from harming a human and nullifying the agreement.”

“Our pack is in control enough to restrain themselves and when to remove themselves from a situation.  Your attempting to chain them will definitely not help anything. It’ll just make them more likely to attack.”

“Fine.”

“We aren’t going to include you in all pack meetings, but we don’t expect to be included in all your super secret hunter meetings.”

“Fair,” Sam agrees. 

“I agree to the data sharing terms.  Open lines of communication are key. We don’t need to be at each others’ meetings as long as we’re keeping both sides informed.”

“We’d like to get all the contact information for your Pack,” Chris says, “and a hierarchy of who to call in which situation.”

“Everything goes through our alpha.”

“We’d still like a full list, for the future, if we need to coordinate.” 

Stiles nodded.  “We’d like the same from you.”

“Of course.”

“Defining territory lines, huh? If we’re working together, why do we need territory lines?”

“We don’t want any altercations if one group approaches another unannounced. You know as well as we do that werewolves can be territorial,” Chris replies.

“So can humans,” Stiles reminds him.  “I get the feeling hunters get a little trigger happy sometimes.”

He glances and Dean who glares in response.

“What would you propose” Chris says.

“We give you a mile radius of the Argent house and mile radius of wherever Sam and Dean are staying.  You give us the houses of the pack and the Hale property.  No crossing into those areas unannounced because those are the only areas any of us should be half asleep or something and accidentally attack.  Otherwise, we’ll all just have to show a little self-control.”

“Excuse me if I don’t trust the control of teenage werewolves,” Dean interjects.  “What’s wrong with the territory lines we drew up?”

“Our pack is too spread out, especially when you start dividing up where people go for jobs or do their grocery shopping.  We can’t start drawing the town into little sections.  We don’t even have a plan for what we’re going to do while we try to figure out what the alphas are doing. Drawing territory lines is just going to cause more disputes between both sides.”

“I agree,” Sam says.  “We’ll all show a little respect for everyone’s home base, but overall lines aren’t going to help what we’re trying to accomplish.”

Stiles decides he definitely likes Sam.  It’s a shame the guy’s a hunter because he seems pretty chill overall.  He wonders vaguely if all hunting families are like this.  The Argents range from Crazy Kate to Honorable Chris.  Apparently the Winchester brothers don’t see exactly  eye to eye on hunting either.  _Wonder if they’re dad’s as nutso as Gerard too?_ He aborts the mental tangent and turns his attention back to the contract.

 “Under no circumstances will the bite be administered to any of the hunters involved in this treaty,” Stiles reads aloud.  “Not a problem. We’d like to add that under no circumstances is any form of wolfsbane to be used on any member of our pack and no use of wolfsbane around the pack without making us aware of it—making bullets, grinding power, vaporizer, whatever.”

“Fine,” Dean grits out as the other two nod.

“This next bit: ‘the Hale pack shall not attempt to increase its numbers while in this treaty?’ It’s absolutely out of the question.”

“Why?’ Dean demands.

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“We need to know your pack isn’t going to get out of control trying to grow to gain strength,” Dean insists. “If you start feeling threatened and start turning people left and right—”

“Our alpha has more control than that.  Besides, we can grow the pack without turning people.”

“Then would you agree not to turn any humans while in the treaty?” Sam asks.

“We’ll agree that we won’t bring in anyone who isn’t willing, our typical policy, but that’s the best you’re going to get on that one, especially when we don’t know exactly how long this treaty’s going to be in place.  It could be a while before we take down the alphas. ”

There is a moment in which all three hunters exchange glances and silent communication.  It seems this was one of their bigger issues.  Sam and Chris don’t exactly seem thrilled at the concession, but overall they both seemed to just want some kind of agreement on the table.  It’s clear Dean is seething, obviously unhappy with the way things are going.  Stiles wonders if he’s ever happy; he seems like the kind of guy who was born pissed and gets worse with age. Finally, amidst all the stares, Sam raises his eyebrows, sighs, and shrugs; Chris nods. Dean grudgingly follows suit.

“We expect to be made aware of any additions to your pack,” Argent says.  “We’ll make you aware of any other hunters who join us.”

Stiles nods and makes a note of the new term on the paper. “That works.”

“And the last bit, no purposeful physical harm shall be inflicted by any member of the Hale Pack on any hunter and no  purposeful physical harm shall be inflicted by any hunter on any member of the Hale Pack unless there is concrete evidence of a violation of the Code,” Stiles reads.  He looked at Chris, “By the code I assume you mean—”

“We hunt those who hunt us,” Chris finishes.  “Any harm to an innocent human, from either side, is grounds for being stopped by any means necessary and nullification of the treaty.”

“Sounds good, but we’d like to make a point that the innocent human definition includes the human families of the Hale pack.  Some know the situation, some don’t; regardless, they are not to be used as leverage or harmed in any way.”

“Agreed.”

They’ve reached the end of the hunters’ list and addressed the critical points Derek had wanted.  Stiles is honestly surprised it didn’t take longer.  Then again, this is just kind of a band aid to get them by.  They still have to start agreeing on how to tackle the alpha problem, but that’s for another time. This just needed to get everyone in enough agreement to ensure that further conversations could happen without anyone getting shot or mauled.

“I think we’ve reached a good base line,” Sam says.  “As we go if we need to add or edit portions of the agreement, would your pack  be willing to discuss that?”

“Assuming the standing treaty isn’t broken, we’ll hear you out.”

“Same from us,” Chris assures him.

“So are we done here?” Dean asks.

“We’re not considering it final until I speak with my alpha.  He’ll inform you within twenty-four hours if our pack accepts or denies the terms,” Stiles is pretty sure he’s said the word alpha more in the past ten minutes than the past week with the pack.  He wonders for a second if Derek can feel any difference before pulling his focus back to the task at hand. 

“Fine.”

“Which of you is serving as Alpha here?” he asks, unable to resist the temptation to simultaneously annoy them all a bit before he goes and assert himself as being more on the wolf side of the issue than the human.  Plus, he is honestly curious how they were resolving their obvious control issues; it’s Argent’s turf, but Dean doesn’t seem the type to concede control to anyone else.

 “What the hell is wrong with you, kid?” Dean replies, frustration reaching the boiling point even faster than Stiles anticipated. “You’re human; you do understand that, don’t you? Making weirdo werewolf references doesn’t make you any less human than we are. Why are you trying to pretend you belong on the supernatural side of this line?”

“Dean,” Sam scolds.

“I belong with my pack,” Stiles replies, “You can keep your opinions about that to yourself, and I’ll try not to comment on the fact that you slaughter things as your livelihood.”

Judging by the look on Dean’s face, Stiles has hit a nerve. 

“Let me make something clear to you: it goes against every instinct I got not to put your little pack down,” Dean informs him bluntly.  “Yeah, we slaughter things, and we save a lot of people doing it, too.  It’s the family business, and I’m damn proud of it, so you can—”

“Family business, huh?” Stiles interrupts.  “You know what the _Hale_ family’s business was? To build a pack—a strong, healthy pack—just by being a family. Sure they turned a few people, but never anyone who wasn’t willing.  They kept their heads down, contributed to the community. Hell, they even protected the community from outside threats a few times. Even after everything that’s happened, our Alpha’s stayed stable enough to start building our pack the way his family taught him, trying to make us family and helping us get through the shit situations we tend to be given.  Funny how your family business tends to destroy things and ours builds them back but our side are _still_ the monsters?  Not sure I follow your logic.”  
            Stiles is in Dean’s face—probably not the wisest choice—but he isn’t backing off this.  Maybe Stiles is new to the supernatural firefights that have been going on for centuries, but he knows enough.  It’s not so different from some of the high-and-mighty deputies who’ve come through the department over the years. This guy, this type of hunter so prejudiced and full of pent up aggression, is the reason hunters can’t be trusted—the start of Kates and Victorias and Gerards.  The kind of hunter who doesn’t want to see the grey area; the kind of hunter who just wants to shoot first and ask questions later, not really thinking about the carnage they’re leaving behind and the people left to clean it up.

“Watch your mouth, kid,” Dean warns, his voice quiet and lethal, jaw muscles clenched. “That treaty isn’t final yet.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Stiles replies, voice calm even though his heart rate is through the roof and he’s never been more thankful for anyone’s lack of werewolf hearing.

“Boys, I think that’s enough,” Chris says firmly.  “We don’t have to like each other.  The enemy of your enemy is your friend.  We’re here to bring down the alpha pack.  This is an objective alliance; we can all keep our opinions to ourselves. We’ve got the terms worked out. Let’s call it a night.”

“Fine,” Stiles agrees, still not breaking the glare between him and Dean.

Sam shoves on his brother’s shoulder, pushing him back slightly from Stiles.  Dean’s glare averts to meet Sam, who lets out an exasperated sigh.  “Come on, Dean. You’ve made your point.  Chill out.”

“Fine, I’m chill whatever. Run home to your Alpha, Mowgli.”

“Keep the cheap shots coming if it makes you feel better,” Stiles replies coolly.  “Rather Mowgli to my pack than a murderer in yours.”

“Boys, that’s enough!” Chris repeats as Dean starts toward Stiles again; Sam’s hand on Dean’s shoulder stops him. 

Stiles looks over at Chris, “I’ll tell my Alpha to contact you to finalize the treaty?” he asks Chris.

“That will be fine,” Chris replies. 

Stiles nods and turns to leave.  He can feel his dislike of Dean Winchester still simmering under his skin and is glad they hadn’t sent a wolf in to negotiate.  Still, he has to admit that, overall, the meet went pretty well. He feels like he’s done the Pack proud, too.  Hopefully they agree.  He’ll find out soon enough.  He pulls his phone from his pocket when he gets to the Jeep.

“You still there, guys?” he asks.

“Actually, Scott and Derek came to you,” Isaac’s voice replies, just as Scott and Derek appear in front of the Jeep.  “Oh my god!” Stiles yelps, getting a full two syllables out of the last word.  “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one day,” he informs them. “Maybe then you’ll learn to quit going stealth mode on the human.”

Scott is grinning widely as he walks around the Jeep to clamber in the back. “Dude, you were awesome in there!” he tells Stiles.   “Like seriously, you totally went all business mode and everything.”

Stiles can’t keep the smile off his face. “Right?” he agrees, catching Scott’s eyes in the rearview as Derek climbs in the passenger seat. “I told you guys I could handle this,” he stares at Derek pointedly.

Derek rolls his eyes.  “Fine. You did a good job.  I’ll call Argent tomorrow and make the agreement official.”

Stiles pumps his fist into the air.

“I am _so_ a total asset to the pack. I’m fucking awesome. You would all be lost without me. Admit it.”

“Shut up and start the car, Mowgli,” Derek instructs with a smirk.

“Oh, _hell_ no. Mowgli is _not_ becoming a thing.  It’s not funny.”

“It’s kinda funny,” Scott argues, laughing.

“I think it suits you,” Derek adds.

“Really? _This_ is when you decide to try for a sense of humor?” Stiles demands of Derek.  “We are not considering this,” he tells them both firmly.  “Mowgli is not a thing, and so help me I will beat your werewolf asses if you make that name stick.”

“Just drive,” Derek orders. “Isaac and Jackson are still waiting in the parking garage.”

Stiles starts the Jeep to go the few blocks to the parking garage the wolves had been camped in, close by in case Stiles needed help. 

“Hey, why did you and Scott come to the warehouse?” Stiles wonders. 

“Because you can’t help running off at the mouth,” Derek replies, “so we figured it was only a matter of time before you got yourself pistol whipped.”

“Dude, seriously, that Dean guy is a total dick though,” Scott complains. 

“You totally though he was going to kill me, didn’t you?”

“Kinda,” Scott admits.  “I just wanted to be closer in case he started something. I mean your face like _just_ started looking normal again after—” _after I didn’t stop Gerard from kidnapping you_ finishes the guilty look on Scott’s face, but what he says aloud is, “I mean—looking normal _enough_ anyway,” and he grins again.

“Well, thanks for not wanting me to get wailed on,” Stiles says; he glances over at Derek.  “And thanks for supervising the overprotective beta so he didn’t wolf out and start mauling things.”

Derek shrugs.  “Would’ve been a shame to lose all the terms you’d agreed on because you and Winchester were having a pissing contest..”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Come on, the guy was a big enough douche to give Jackson a run for his money, and I was a hopped up on I-just-successfully-negotiated-my-first-pack-deal endorphins. He was killing my buzz.  I wouldn’t have said anything if he hadn’t been such an ass about me being in the pack.”

“You need to learn to control your temper,” Derek replies, “especially around hunters.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles mutters, “and before you bother asking, no I don’t need more laps to emphasize the point.”

“Good.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal gratitude to my alpha of a beta; all remaining mistakes are my own. When she first read this, one of her first comments was "Wow, for a Dean!girl you sure made him kind of an asshole." I agree. I did write him that way and with good reason: because however much I may love Dean Winchester, he's a soldier, and Sam's one of the few who ever really gets to see him without his battle face on. I'm just trying to write him in character.


	6. Chapter 5

 

“Stiles is pretty good at the whole negotiating thing,” Isaac comments as Derek drives towards the Kincaids to drop him off.

Derek remains silent but nods. 

“Maybe that could be like his thing, you know? Pack liaison or whatever. Since he can’t do as much of the fighting, he could do that.”

Derek shrugs noncommittally.  Isaac is quiet a while, as he looks out the window, seemingly in thought about before eventually wondering aloud, “You think it bothers him being the only human?”

Derek’s never really thought about it too much; it hasn’t seemed to be an issue. He mulls over the question before pointing out, “Human or not, he’s still pack.”

“Well, yeah, but that whole family business speech, you heard that too?  And him getting so pissed at Dean.  It just seemed like—I don’t know—like he was trying to prove he belongs.  They don’t think he does because he’s human; What if Stiles thinks the same thing?”

“He’s never said anything about it, but if it bothers him to be the only human, he can have the bite whenever he wants.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you’d asked him,” Isaac replies. “Nevermind then.”

Isaac goes back to looking out the window, and Derek doesn’t correct his beta’s assumption.  He’s never offered Stiles the bite because nothing about Stiles’ behavior suggests that the teen has any desire to be a werewolf.  Not to mention Stiles is constantly cracking dogs jokes at the werewolves and commenting on “freaky” werewolf powers, which had led Derek to assume Stiles didn’t want to be turned.  It isn’t until now that he realizes he’d never actually asked.  _Shit._

 _Communication, bro,_ Laura’s voice says in the back of his head.  _You should work on that._

After dropping off Isaac, Derek still cann’t quite stop thinking about Stiles and where he fits in the pack.  Derek can feel that he fits in the pack, but it’s the benefit of being an alpha.  Stiles keeps asserting his place in the pack, even more than Scott does, though Scott is the one who should naturally have those instincts. Derek considers it fact that Stiles is just in this pack because Scott and Stiles are ScottandStiles.  They’re best friends so Stiles allowed himself to be pulled into the pack when Scott came. But now that he looks at it, that isn’t really the case.  The boys came in together, as equals.  Stiles fights with Derek, but at least half the time he’s sticking up for packmates, for the good of the pack, and more than once he’s led off a torrent of unsolicited advice with “if you want this pack to be a family…”

 _You know what the Hale family’s business was? To build a pack, a strong, healthy pack, just by being a family…Even after everything that’s happened, our Alpha’s building our pack the way his family taught him, trying to build up a strong family Pack and teaching us to do the right thing with the situation we’ve been given._  

Derek can’t help smiling at that.  It almost makes dealing with Stiles’ smart ass remarks worth it.

Almost.

Maybe Stiles had just been exaggerating for the benefit of the hunters, but that kind of loyalty doesn’t come from nowhere, and it isn’t something to be ignored.  It’s something that can be a real asset if it keeps developing, like Isaac’s initial rebellion and flaunting of power that had quieted into a more stable strength.  There’s  also no arguing that a sixteen-year-old should _not_ be campaigning more for the family aspect of pack than the alpha is.  Sure Derek had told Scott from the beginning that being werewolves meant they were brothers now, but he still keeps everything at arm’s length, focusing on surviving not thriving.

But that was the difference in Stiles and Derek, something he knows but had never really thinks about.

Derek’s hope has been barely existent for the past six years, the last spark of it extinguished with Laura’s death.  Family is something long gone for Derek, a gaping hole that only ever gets bigger, not better.  And, while Stiles can be a negative smart ass sometimes, he still has an inextinguishable spark of hope underneath.  The kind of hope that can successfully manipulate mountain ash on his first try.  The kind of hope that has him  showing up to werewolf fights and throwing Molotov cocktails at alphas and hitting kaminas with his Jeep.  The hope that he could make a difference in the outcome of a fight, no matter how simply human he may be.  The hope that he really belongs to a pack and that the pack is going to work. 

Derek looks at the pack and sees a bunch of vulnerable misfit teenagers who aren’t ready to handle this, who could easily end up dead. He sees another opportunity for him to get his pack killed and end up alone. . He sees something to be lost.

Stiles looks at the pack and sees a bunch of people who’ve been thrown together in some shit circumstances but might as well make the most of it. He sees people who are stronger than they seem and can overcome the odds. He sees the potential for friendship and family; he sees something to be gained.        

 _Remember that conversation we had about being a good alpha occasionally meaning you have to listen to a sixteen year old kid?_ Laura’s voice asks.  _You need this kid.  He’s done more for the pack dynamic in the past week than you’ve done in months. He keeps telling you to know your betas and you don’t even know if he wants to be a werewolf or not? Kind of a big oversight._

Then again it is Stiles. Surely if he wants the bite he’d be bugging Derek incessantly.  Jackson wouldn’t leave it alone even when he was fairly sure Derek wanted to kill him.  Stiles is definitely not afraid to talk to Derek.  In fact, he never stops unless threatened with serious bodily injury and sometimes not even that is enough.

_You just don’t want to have to go talk about this.  Suck it up, Buttercup. You’re the alpha. You don’t get to dodge around the important issues._

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“You look hyped up,” his dad observes as Stiles walks in the door. 

“We got a treaty with the hunters,” Stiles informs him with a smile, not adding that he was the one who’d done the negotiating.  “They’re going to work with us to get the alpha pack—or ya know—at least not kill us.”

“That’s good.” The sheriff’s eyes turn serious, the way they do more often now as soon as he remembers Stiles’ jokes about life-threatening situations aren’t so hyperbolic these days.  “Be careful,” he adds.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “I want a nickel every time you tell me that. Before long I’ll have enough to buy Jackson’s Porsche.”

"I’m your dad. It’s my—”

“Job,” they said together.

“I know, I know,” Stiles tells him.  “What’s for supper?”

“Every man for himself tonight,” his dad replies. “I’m having a sandwich, but there’s a little chili in the freezer still if you—”

“I think I’ll stick to PB & J, thanks.”

Stiles walks into the kitchen and starts making the sandwich.  His dad joins him not long after.

“So speaking of dinner, have you mentioned the offer for having a pack dinner to your friends?” his dad asks too casually, for the fifth or sixth time in three days.

“No, not yet.”

“I know it’s not exactly cool, so if you just don’t want them over here, then—”

“I told you. It’s not that. I think it’d be cool or whatever, but we don’t really do much of the classic bonding kind of stuff. I’m not sure how to pitch it.”

“In my experience, you just remind them it’s free food,” his dad replies. “That’s the rule of teenagers right? If you feed them, they will come.”

“Really? Field of Dreams?”

“It’s a classic and you love it as much as I do.”  Stiles has no argument for that.  “Actually, we haven’t watched it in a while.  Want to?”

And maybe Stiles would rather be decimating Scott at Modern Warfare tonight, but that can be pushed back a couple hours. His dad is still taking this whole werewolf situation fairly well. 

“Sure, Dad.”

And yeah, the grin on his dad’s face is totally worth the delay on gaming with Scott.  They make their dinner with only minimal whining about the fact that Stiles insists on pretzels instead of potato chips.  The DVD skips in a couple places because it’s been watched too many times, so Stiles figures it’s probably time to buy Dad a new copy for Father’s Day or something.  His Dad falls asleep toward the end of the movie, snoring lightly, so Stiles throws a blanket over him and heads up to message Scott.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

He’s only been at his desk a few moments before there’s a tap at the window, and he turns to see none other than Derek Hale, creeper extraordinaire, crouched on the roof outside. 

“Seriously?!” Stiles complains as he crosses the room to let Derek in.

Never mind that this is exactly how Stiles enters the McCall house because that’s totally different.  Stiles and Derek are definitely not StilesandScott feel-free-to-drop-in-whenever kind of friends. At least Scott makes a little noise on the way up instead of creeping up and appearing out of nowhere like Derek tends to do. 

“What the hell, dude? You can come in the door like a normal person. My dad doesn’t think you’re a murderer anymore.”

“The front door was locked. I could hear him snoring downstairs so I didn’t ring the doorbell.”

“So call me.”

“I did.”

Stiles picks his phone up off his desk to check and realizes it’s dead.

“Oh, my bad.  So why’re you here? Find out something about the alphas?”

“No, this is just a conversation that should happen in person.”

“A conversation about what?” Stiles asks warily.

“I never asked you if you wanted the Bite. Do you?”

And wow, Stiles is not even remotely prepared for this conversation.  He searches for a witty sarcastic remark to deflect with, but his mind seems to have frozen.  Instead he stands with his mouth opening and closing wordlessly feeling like an idiot.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Derek adds quickly, no doubt in response to the samba Stiles heart is now beating out.

“I—uh—I—why the hell are you asking me this _now_?”

Derek shruggs.

“No, you don’t get to shrug this one off, buddy.  That’s a big question—a big deal.  Why are you asking me now? You don’t want it to kill me, right? Like this isn’t a do-you-want-the-bite-because-I don’t-think-your-scrawny-self-can-take-it-and-I-want-you-to-shut-up thing? This is a hey-you-did-good-for-the-pack–today-thing. Right?”

“There are easier ways to kill you, Stiles,” Derek says with a smirk.

“Okay cool. Good. So actual bite offer then.  Actual Stiles-could-be-a-werewolf offer.”

“Actual offer,” Derek confirms.

“Why?”  Derek is silent.  “Seriously, man, you can’t just blindside me with this. Wanna give me just a hint at what’s going on in your weirdo werewolf mind?”

“A lot of conversations lately have involved the fact that you’re a human in the pack—the only human in the pack. The crap you gave Winchester when he called you out for being on the supernatural side of things. I thought maybe it bothered you, being human.  You’ve never been given a choice to be anything else, and so I’m giving you the choice now,” Derek explains. “If you want it.”

“Well technically…” Stiles begins before he can rein his mouth in and realizes that if Derek is saying this he has no idea about Peter’s offer.

“Technically what?” Derek demands when Stiles pauses.

“Peter offered me the bite once, before you were alpha and everything.” Derek’s eyes flash red for just a moment.  “But I said no ‘cause back then he was killing people and he’d bit Scott and he was being all creepy. It was just weird. So I mean sure, I kinda wanted it but not really.”

 “So does that answer still stand?”

“Maaaaybe?” Stiles says, unsure.  “I mean, does it suck being the breakable human with no fun wolf powers? Yeah, it does. But there’s good stuff about being human too, and I mean I can still do some stuff and it’s not exactly like I’ve thought about this much you’re kinda bringing this up out of the blue and—”

“ _Stiles…”_

“What?!” he demands defensively. “You just offered to turn me into a werewolf! I’m allowed to freak out for a minute before I give you an answer. Peter did the same damn thing wanting me to decide right then and with the creepy teeth hovering over my wrist thing and it’s a question that requires a little deliberation so let’s not jump the gun, okay? There’s a lot to consider here.”

_Because it’s not like I can take it back. Unless I want to try killing Derek which, okay, maybe I’ve said I’d let him die before but that’s not the same as actually killing him. If Scott can’t even kill Peter… and speaking of dying the bite might still kill me even if that’s not the goal here and what about my dad what the hell would he do —but if the alpha pack is coming maybe I need to be a little less killable because if I die who’s going to look after dad and if I’ve got werewolf stuff going on I could protect him—or kill him but let’s not go there—because god all this alpha shit is a whole  clusterfuck on its own to deal with  and  we don’t even know how we’re going to take them on and maybe I’d be better as a human able to do the random magic and shit  but maybe werewolf is safer and—what if this is really that they don’t want a human in the pack. Maybe it bothers Derek that I’m human and so he hopes it bothers me so I don’t mind but what if this is just a test or something because he wants a human not a wolf and maybe I like the pack a lot more than I expected and I don’t want to fucking get kicked out just because I can’t wolf out with the rest of them and it would be kinda cool to wolf out with the rest of them but holy shit there is no coming back from it. There is no two week free trial version of being a werewolf and I need to——I just—I need to—what am I even doing—I can’t make this—how am I supposed to pick— I can’t even think straight!_

And then his mind is suddenly wiped blank because he’s being shoved into the wall by the window.

“Shit, no! Derek, don’t!” Stiles blurts, panicking and flailing.  “I don’t want the bite. Don’t!” _Fucking impatient werewolves._

“I’m not going to bite you,” Derek says, sounding thoroughly offended that Stiles would think that.  “You just need to calm down.”

“How the fuck is slamming me into a wall supposed to calm me down?”

“You zoned out, and from the sound of your heart you were headed for a panic attack. Breathe for a second.”

“Oh,” Stiles replies dumbly.  Realizing as he took in a few deep breaths just how worked up he’d really gotten.  “Thanks, I guess.”

“Stiles, this isn’t a one-time offer.”

“So you mean I could like rain check this conversation? Because it would be really awesome if I didn’t have to process this right now.”

“Sure,” Derek replies, clearly amused. “You’re pack either way.  I just thought you should know it’s an option.”

He lets go, and Stiles slumps into his desk chair. 

“Thanks, dude,” Stiles says with a weak smile. 

Maybe it’s all a lot to process, but there’s still the glaring fact that Derek came to offer him the bite because he doesn’t want Stiles to feel left out.  It’s moments like this when he realizes Derek probably deserves more credit that Stiles gives him sometimes. The dude is only twenty-two and taking on the nightmare of keeping a teenage pack in line with no real backup and essentially no training on how to be an alpha.  He’s doing pretty good with things—especially now that he listens to Stiles sometimes.

Derek shrugs off the thanks and heads for the window. 

“Hey, Derek?” Derek turns.  “My dad keeps mentioning having the pack over for supper and hanging out or something, and I was wondering—”

“Sure,” Derek says. “Ask him when. I’ll make sure everyone comes.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise at how easy that was. “Seriously?” he asks, trying to spot the trap. “You’re game for the cheesy pack bonding activity?”

“It’s the family business,” Derek replies with a shrug and an honest-to-God smile that Stiles couldn’t help returning.  “Right?”

_Yeah but that was sentimental word vomit I couldn’t stop under pressure.  I didn’t think you’d actually go for the sentimental description of your trying-to-be-super-tough-in-our-cool-leather-jackets-while-we-flaunt-our-angsty-badassery pack._

“Yeah, but I never thought you’d actually admit that,” Stiles says honestly.   “Doesn’t it kinda kill your tough alpha street cred?”

Derek cocks his head, considering Stiles’ words before responding, “Maybe the pack doesn’t need tough alpha street cred.”

“Dude, who the hell are you, and what have you done with Derek Hale?”

“Shut up, Mowgli,” he grumbles, and with a roll of his eyes, Derek disappears out the open window.

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“So this is the pack?” Dean asks flipping through the pages Sam had printed out.  “Guess asking consent doesn’t involve informing the parents,” he comments, holding up the two missing persons reports for Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd.  “That’s kind of creepy, stealing teenagers for you pack.  Isn’t this guy like thirty?”

“No, actually he’s a year younger than me.”

“Twenty-two?”

“Congratulations, on your ability to do basic math.”

“Shut up, Sam  Twenty-two is still weird.”

Sam rolls his eyes at his obtuse brother. “Don’t be a hypocrite.  You pick up eighteen- year-olds; that’s an even bigger age difference.”

Dean shoots him a look, his eyes narrowed. “Hooking up with _perfectly legal,_ consenting adults is not the same thing as stealing underage kids and turning them into monsters.”

Shaking his head, Sam take the two pages for Reyes and Boyd back from his brother., glancing over them again. “Come on, Dean. I have a hard time believing Hale would still be alive if Argent thought he was legitimately taking kids.  His notes on the file say there’s no reason to suspect they were hurt.  It just seems like they left town, maybe they wanted a new pack and fresh start.  They probably ran away.  Plenty of teenagers run away.  _I_ ran away.”

“Not to join a fucking werewolf cult.”

“Yeah, well, point still stands.  Some kids are looking for somewhere to run to and this probably doesn’t seem like such a bad plan.  I mean one was epileptic and depressed, one’s an abuse victim, one was living with an aunt and five cousins because his mom’s in rehab.  I don’t quite get the McCall kid, but I guess with his dad leaving—”

“I don’t get the Stilinski kid,” Dean puts in. “I mean sure having a first name like that is just cruel and unusual and bound to get him hell in school but what makes a human kid join up with a pack?”

“They’re probably his friends, and it’s none of our business anyway.”

“It is when the little moron is setting himself up to get turned.  They’re about to take on an alpha pack.  You really think they’ll trust the human will survive that? They’re either planning to convince him to take the bite or they’re hoping he dies in the crossfire. Either way I got a problem with it.”

“You’re right,” Sam says with mock enthusiasm. “Let’s save the kid—get him away from the pack.  But how? Oh, I know!  We’ll hold a gun on him the first time we meet him, make fun of him while he’s trying to seriously negotiate, criticize the people he’s most loyal to, and then start picking a fight with him once the negotiations are over.  That sound like a good way to get him to trust us and listen to us so we can convince him to think about his decisions?”

Dean’s face contorts into a bitchface that is truly epic. He likes to claim Sam holds the record for the “queen of all bitchfaces” but his brother should really look in a mirror sometime.  Sam fights the urge to laugh.

“And honestly, given that he’s with a non-violent pack, I really don’t see the big deal here.”

“They’re werewolves, Sam; they’re all violent.”

“Yeah, well, so are we. What’s our excuse?”

“Is that was this is about? What that little fucker said about family business? Because you _know_ it’s different. He just doesn’t get it.”

“Dean, we were raised learning how to kill without asking why.  You said yourself with the vampire nest back in Montana, we were raised to hate these things, and you do.”

“And you don’t?”

“I see more shades of grey than you do.”

“We save a lot of people, Sam.”

“I’m not arguing that point; I’m just saying that doesn’t exempt us from some obvious similarities to these werewolves you want to hate so bad.”

“Similarities?”

“How is their alpha different than Dad?”

“You did _not_ just say that.”

“I’m serious, Dean. We were taught to fight, to be lethal. Expected to follow orders from him and never question his authority.  He told us to protect our own but never hurt innocent people. We’re the human version of what the Hale pack is trying to do. They’re not the best at it, and they’re probably kind dysfunctional but so are we.  They aren’t that different.”

“They’re not even human.”

“Maybe I’m not either.”

“Sam, don’t.”

“I’m serious. We don’t know why the hell the other children and I are so special to the demon, but I’ve definitely got something supernatural going on with me.  Gordon’s probably not the only hunter who’d consider me a threat that needs taking care of.  Our life isn’t quite as black and white as you want it to be.  You should at least give these kids a chance. They’re trying to do the right thing.”

“The right—the right thing is not turning humans into monsters, Sam.  If you want a little club of friends, that’s one thing. This is entirely different, and you know it.”

“I’m not saying they’re right. I’m just saying they aren’t the brand of evil we’re used to tackling.  You need to—”

“What I need is a drink,” Dean interrupts, grabbing his coat,

“Dean, don’t be like that.  Just think about it, okay? This pack isn’t so different from that nest.  You cut Lenore some slack; don’t you think these kids deserve some too?”

“Don’t wait up,” Dean says, heading out the door.  “Get your head in the game, Sammy.”

“Get yours out of your ass!” Sam replies curtly as Dean shuts the door.

He turns back to the profiles on the pack members.  He knows where Dean was coming from, but the fact of the matter was that Dean sounds like a total bigot right now.  Maybe the Stilinski kid isn’t the brightest for hanging out with the werewolves, but it’s clear he cares about them.  He wants to protect them the same way Sam tried to protect Madison. He can’t fault Stiles for not walking out on his friends.   Sam had been ready to keep Madison even in her uncontrollable state.  If there was a possibility of her getting control, he wouldn’t have been able to pull that trigger, and she’d still be alive. These werewolves have a choice about how much of the animal side they let in, and as far as Sam can tell, they’re choosing to do the right thing and keeping hold on their humanity.  If this kid is lucky enough that he doesn’t have to lose people to the bite, Sam damn sure isn’t going to try and take them away from him.  Dean is just going to have to get over himself. 

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Sam’s in bed, about to turn out the lamp between their beds when Dean comes back in, smells like cigarette smoke and beer.  He shucks off his jacket and plops on the edge of the bed to start taking off his boots.

“I hate cases like this,” he mumbles, words just a little slurred.  He’s not wasted, but he’s good and buzzed, buzzed enough that his usual badass-hunter game face is slipping. 

“What?” Sam asks.

“These kind of cases that get in your head. It fucks things up, Sammy. If we start letting our guard down, start humanizing monsters, we’re going to lose our edge.”

“There are more important things than keeping our edge.  If we start forcing everything to be black and white we’ll end up like Gordon.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we shouldn’t put the local pack down, but I still don’t like working with ‘em, and I’m not gonna plaster on a smile and that goddamned soulful puppy dog look you do.  This is strictly business.  We’re gonna gank this alpha pack as soon as fucking possible, and then we’re gonna find some simple, black and white salt and burn after this, or I swear I’m gonna lose my freakin’ mind.”

In moments like this, Sam almost forgives Dean for being such an ass sometimes. At the end of the day, Dean just wants to kill shit and save people, and there’s nothing really wrong with that.  He still remembers his brother's words from months ago. 

 _What if we killed things that didn’t deserve killing?_  

It comes with the unspoken, terrifying question: _What if the real monster is the face in the mirror?_

“Simple salt and burn,” Sam agrees.  “Sounds good.”

Dean slumps back on his bed and seems to be half asleep before Sam can even reach over and turn out the light.  


	7. Chapter 6

 

Derek can hear the sounds of working from the basement as he walks up the Stilinskis' front steps.  He hopes it means Stiles and his father are acting on his suggestion for a safe room.   He hears them pause in their work when he rings the doorbell.

“I’ll get it,” Stiles offers, and Derek hears his familiar gait bound up the stairs and to the front door.

“Derek?” his eyes go wide in alarm. “What’re you doing here? Something wrong?”

“No, I need to talk to you.”

“I have a phone,” Stiles reminds him, clearly irritated.

“I know, and it would be a hell of a lot more effective if you kept it charged.”

Stiles pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the dark screen guiltily.  “Oops.”

“You should never be unreachable,” Derek chastises.

“I know; I know, but it’s my old phone, dude; it sucks.  My last one didn’t exactly survive the swim in the pool, so I’m stuck with this until I get an upgrade in August.  The battery’s kind of shot.”

“Don’t make excuses. Keep it charged or you start getting extra laps at training.”

“Fine, jeez. You didn’t come here just to talk about me neglecting my cellphone. What’s up?”

“The Winchesters want to meet later to exchange information.  You’ve been doing most of the research, and you handled the last meeting well.  They asked to meet with you again.”

“Because I’m scrawny and human,” Stiles guesses.

“Probably,” Derek agrees honestly, “but, if it makes them feel less threatened, it helps keep things calm.”

“Fair point,” Stiles concedes.  “They could come here I guess—home turf advantage and all that. Besides, I’ve kind of got this whole wall of info thing put together with all the facts I’ve got, and it’d be a bitch to move,” he pauses to take a breath before asking.  “Does it have to be _both_ of them?”

“I tried to have them just send Sam, but his brother insists on coming, too.  We compromised as long as they don’t bring guns, and one of the wolves could be present with you.”

“I don’t need a body guard. I was fine at the warehouse with all three of them, remember?”

“And they put a gun in your face, remember that?”

Derek certainly remembers—remembers the clench in his gut knowing Stiles would be dead long before the pack could get there to do anything.  He could hear Laura’s voice in the back of his head _You know better than to take anything for granted, Derek.  You’ve got to be more careful._ It’s why there will be a werewolf in the house with Stiles tonight, and Derek will be just outside as soon as the Winchesters go in.  He’s not naïve enough to believe they’re any less deadly just because they won’t have guns.

“I was fine,” Stiles insists.

“You can ask Scott to come if you’d rather have him than one of the others, but you’re not meeting hunters alone.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Okay, I’ll invite Scott.”

"They’ll meet you at eight; Scott should be here by seven thirty.”

“Stiles?” the sheriff calls, and Derek can hear him ascending the stairs.  “Everything okay up here?”

“Yeah, Dad, it’s just Derek.”

“Something the matter?” the sheriff asks.

“The hunters want to meet,” Stiles replies.  “Don’t worry,” he adds quickly as his father’s eyebrows crease.  “I’ve got my own wolf entourage for protection.  I’ll be perfectly safe.”

The sheriff gives his son a dubious look and turns to Derek. 

“We wouldn’t let the exchange happen if we thought there was any real danger,” Derek assures him. 

“I’ll call the office and—”

“No, Dad,” Stiles argues. “You don’t need to take off. It’s perfectly fine. They won’t be armed or anything.”  It’s clear the sheriff is still thinking of calling; his hand remains on the phone clipped to his belt.  “You’ve got to work off that bill you racked up at Home Depot,” he teases, defaulting to humor, as usual.

“I told you I’d help pay for the armory,” Derek reminds Stiles, also effectively helping to change the subject. 

“We’re fine to take care of it,” the sheriff says. 

“I have plenty of resources.  You don’t need to—”

“If you really want to help, you’re welcome to come hang some drywall,” the sheriff tells him.

Derek considers just a moment before replying, “Okay.”

“Whoa, dude, he was kidding,” Stiles says. “You’re not actually staying to—”

“My pack; my responsibility.”

 _Look at you, being all grown up and helpful.  It’s adorable,_ Laura jokes.

"No, dude—Dad, tell him you were kidding.”

“If he wants to heave drywall around, I’m not gonna stop him,” the sheriff says with a shrug.  “Come on in.  I’ll treat you boys to pizza once we’re done.”

Derek is fighting the urge to simultaneously roll his eyes and grin.  This is fairly ridiculous—the sheriff’s lightheartedly inviting his son’s alpha in to help out with a do-it-yourself armory/safe room and then have pizza, as though there’s not an imminent threat of mortal danger hanging over all of them—and he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised the sheriff can be this nonchalant under the circumstances given the exasperating way Stiles tends to handle stress.  Derek really wants to smile though because this is exactly how everyday life works with a werewolf family.  All the craziness becomes the norm, and life adjusts itself to insert bits of regularity into the spectacular.

For the first time in years, he’s reminded of the natural flux between the extraordinary and mundane that characterized his childhood—the way “grounded” in the Hale family also meant you didn’t get to shift and go out on runs with the others—the way he helped his father and Peter track a rogue Omega one afternoon and played in a baseball game that night—the way his mother left serious pack meetings early to go to her children’s parent-teacher conferences—the reminder puts a weird kind of ache in his chest.  It’s been a long time since he had to reconcile average life and werewolf life.  Suddenly Scott’s bellyaching about failing classes because he was out practically every night for months isn’t so inconsequential—it’s still annoying as hell, but maybe a little less unfounded than Derek originally thought.

Despite himself, he can feel the smile playing at the corner of his lips as he follows the sheriff and his son into the house. 

“I’m gonna charge my phone and call Scott,” Stiles says, going upstairs to his room. 

Derek follows the Sheriff down to the basement.  It’s framed into three rooms; some cardboard boxes are packed into the smallest, back room.  The largest room, nearly half the basement space, is almost half closed in with drywall. 

“I always meant to finish it,” the sheriff says by way of small talk.  “It’s been framed since we moved in, but one thing and another.  Needless to say this isn’t exactly what I had in mind for it.  Still, it’s good to have a project to work on.  Keeps my mind off—things.”

The “ _like the fact that my son is running around with all sorts of supernatural beings and lethal humans with every possibility of being maimed or mauled or murdered in the near future”_ is unspoken but nevertheless understood.

Derek nods because he feels like the sheriff’s expecting some sort of reply, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that.

“Stiles says as long as it’s lined with the mountain ash, the exterior can be made of anything?”

“Stronger is always better,” Derek replies with a shrug, “but technically yes, the line will keep werewolves from getting in here. It’s a good starting point.” 

The sheriff has that same look on his face that Stiles gets before a bout of word vomit, and Derek’s starting to regret agreeing to stay and help. 

“This is a terrible transition,” the sheriff says, and Derek fights back a groan. 

_Isn’t dealing with your son’s insatiable need to verbalize everything enough? You really have to do it too?_

_Be nice,_ Laura admonishes.

 “But speaking of good starting points,” the sheriff continues. “I feel like the two of us haven’t exactly gotten off on the right foot.  I know I brought you in when Laura died, but you didn’t leave us much choice there.   I led the manhunt for you, but the eyewitnesses who claimed you were trying to kill them were my son and his best friend.  Then my kid finally tells me the whole story, and I find out he’s been involved in all sorts of life-threatening situations and is trying to join a werewolf pack you’re in charge of it, so I know I came on pretty strong the other day, and I meant everything I said, keeping Stiles safe and happy is always going to be my top priority, but looking out for Stiles doesn’t mean I have to be a thorn in your side.  I can help you out too.” 

“I’m fine,” Derek replies, trying not to sound too annoyed.

“I don’t mean to sound condescending by that,” the sheriff says, “I just—my first priority is my kid, but you’re not that much older than him or the others in the pack.  It’s all I can do to keep track of _one_ teenager, and, clearly even I can’t keep track of everything he gets himself into You’ve got _four_ of them to deal with—five counting Lydia.  It’s a lot to have on your plate at twenty-two.” 

He _hates_ the look the sheriff is giving him.  It’s that look of pity he and Laura got so often after the fire—a look he still gets from a few people, even now.  He hates it. It makes him want to shift and attack anything with a heartbeat just to prove that he isn’t weak, and that—however fucked up he might be—he doesn’t need _anyone’s_ goddamned pity.

“All set,” Stiles says as he comes down the stairs, breaking Derek’s thoughts and derailing the anger building in his chest.  “Scott’s coming over later with Lydia.”

“Lydia?”

“They’re partners for a chemistry project. Harris figures there’s no way Lydia’ll let Scott screw her grade, which means it’ll help his.”

“She knows it’s a meet, right?” Derek asks.

“She—and I quote—doesn’t give a flying fu—” Stiles suddenly remembers his father is present, aborts the curse, and settles for “she said she doesn’t care if hunters are coming.  She’s not letting Scott embarrass her in front of the whole class.  Personally, I think she just can’t resist a puzzle that needs figuring out and wants to be in the loop, but whatever.  More the merrier right?” _Another human to worry about,_ Derek thinks.

 _But Lydia Martin is not exactly a helpless damsel,_ Laura reminds him. 

Derek shrugs.  “Sure.” 

He goes to lift a section of the drywall from the stack in the middle of the floor.  It calms his anger just a bit more to see the sheriff’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise when Derek lifts it easily alone and maneuvers it deftly to a blank space of frame.  The sheriff moves quickly to drive in the screws that will hold the sheetrock in place.  They fall into an easy rhythm.  Stiles comes behind them to apply the tape and mud between the pieces. The two Stilinskis keep up an almost constant chatter as they work; Derek wishes he’d brought his iPod. 

They’re done before too long.  It still needs a lot of work, but overall it’s got a lot of promise.

 

 *****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

Derek leaves before the pizza comes.  Dad eats quickly and runs out the door to work.  Stiles gets approximately ten minutes to himself before Scott’s there, and Lydia’s ten minutes behind Scott.  Stiles wonders vaguely when his house became Grand Central Station as they wait for the Winchesters to arrive. 

When the doorbell rings, Stiles goes to answer with Scott trailing behind him; Stiles can practically feel the tension radiating off his friend.  He still thinks they’re overreacting to insist one of the werewolves be here, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the sense of belonging that comes with the pack being overprotective.  Sure, it’s a constant reminder that he’s the flimsy human, but being the flimsy human they want around enough to bother protecting isn’t _too_ bad.

“Hey, Stiles,” Sam greets with a smile.

“Hey,” Stiles replies. “You guys can come on in.”   He gestures to Scott as they pass him.  “This is Scott.”

“Scott,” Sam says, offering a hand.  “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Scott shakes his hand but still looks wary of the hunter.

"This is my brother, Dean,” Sam adds when Dean fails to introduce himself.

“We cleared off the kitchen table so we can spread out in there,” Stiles says, “and I’ve got some of my stuff up on the wall.”

He’d slid the china cabinet and the bookcase next to it out of the way a few days ago so he could have a blank wall on which he could construct a visual but also hide it in the event normal people were dropping by.  He’ll move it downstairs later, but Derek insisted he not let the hunters see the basement safe room, and his dad had agreed. 

“Sounds good,” Sam says

“Hi,” Sam says to Lydia, who’s sitting up at the bar.  “I’m—”

“Don’t care,” Lydia replies airily, cutting him off.  “I’m just here because my lab partner is an idiot who can’t be trusted to carry his own part of the weight.”

“Hey!” Scott protests.  “I’m not an _idiot_.  You try keeping up in classes when you spend half your time trying not to get killed—and the other half trying to keep other people from getting killed! My grades were _fine_ before this whole werewolf thing started and—”

“Whatever,” Lydia snaps, “would you just get your book out so we can be done with this?”

Dean Winchester is gawking at the two of them, seemingly dumbfounded.

“What's your problem?” Scott demands, glaring at the hunter.  

Dean huffs out a laugh, and Stile still can’t figure out what’s going on in the hunter’s mind.  “Chemistry homework? Really?”

“Yes, really,” Scott retorts.  “You didn't seriously think we spend all our time mauling things and running around in the woods? We can be just as fucking normal as everyone else!”

“Okaaaay,” Stiles cuts in.  “Back to the whole pack of alphas who want to kill people,” Stiles says, wanting to derail the disaster of a conversation. 

“Right,” Sam agrees, opening his messenger bag and pulling out his computer and a stack of papers.  “Here’s what I’ve got."

They spend the next twenty minutes or so consolidating information, mainly the case details for the four victims of the supposed animal attack. Scott keeps looking up from his homework every few minutes and eyeing Sam and Dean, as if the hunters are the ones who could sprout fangs and claws at any moment.  Personally, Stiles likes Sam more and more as they continue comparing research; it doesn’t hurt that Sam clearly enjoys delving into the sources to connect the dots just as much as Stiles does. Dean probably still warrants the glares he gets, but Stiles also catches Dean looking at his friends when Scott isn’t watching.  The hunter looks puzzled each time he does, and Stiles guesses Dean has probably never stalled his trigger finger long enough to see supernatural creatures sit around and do normal things like homework.

“So here’s the thing,” Stiles says, finally getting to the connection he’d made yesterday.  “Of the five places the alpha pack has been that we can track, the first two, someone turns up dead from some kind of animal attack, the next day or so a missing persons report is filed on one of the friends or family of the victim.  The third case, there are three animal attacks, each more violent than the one before it.  Then the missing person turned up two hundred miles away with an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest and damage from some kind of animal post-mortem.”

“That’s the case that got the hunters’ attention,” Sam says.  “Our source thought they were escalating, but then the fourth they’re going back to the original M.O. It’s odd.  Usually once a Being escalates like this it can’t rein in again.”

“I think they’re recruiting,” Stiles says. 

"Recruiting?” Sam asks, and Stiles’ appreciation for the hunter grows because the tone isn’t the skepticism his theories are normally met with; Sam seems intrigued.

“They want the missing people.  See these attacks?” Stiles asks, gesturing to the images of the four corpses from the ‘normal’ attacks; it’s amazing how much easier it is to hack crime scene photos when his dad isn’t trying to bust him.  “Derek says it looks like two werewolves.  Alphas can bond their betas to the pack most quickly by forcing them to kill with them on the full moon; maybe the alphas are using the power of that bond to get new members.” Stiles gestures to the abnormal case.  “These kills are different, just one wolf.  The suicide case, he was ripped to shreds, probably two or three wolves.”

“He refused to join?” Sam guesses.

“I think so.  I think these were all kills to convince him to do what the pack wanted, but instead he ran.  Once he killed himself, the pack couldn’t do anything but take out their anger on the corpse.”

“It’d make a hell of a warning,” Sam says, face grim.  “So of course the next one was back to normal.”

“Right. I’m just not sure how they’re picking who to turn.”

“They’re not turning people,” Lydia chimes in, surprising them all “They’re reassigning allegiances.  Getting a newly turned wolf to alpha status is essentially impossible.  They’re recruiting werewolves that are already betas or alphas.”

“It’s a good theory,” Sam tells her.

“I know,” she replies, turning back to her chemistry report.

“It would also explain the need to bond by killing. Switching pack loyalty is hard unless you follow a mate,” Stiles adds.

“You have mates?”

“You have spouses,” Stiles counters.

“I didn’t mean it to sound condescending,” Sam replies quickly.  “I just—I’m still learning about your species of wolf. The ones I’ve seen before aren’t this evolved. I’m curious; that’s all.”

“He doesn’t have a species of wolf,” Dean corrects. “He’s human.”

“He’s pack,” Sam replies with a roll of his eyes. “That makes it his is culture too.”  He looks to Stiles for confirmation.  “Right?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Stiles says, grinning a little.  “You’re learning about us?” he asks, mentally giving Sam some brownie points.  “Well, I guess you would,” he adds as he realizes they’d be crazy not to research the species of wolf the alphas belong to.  “Know thy enemy and all.”

“I mean, sure, but it’s not every day you meet a new creature, especially not ones you can interact with and that have enough control to blend in like your pack does.  It’s kinda cool.”

Stiles smiles outright.  “Hell yeah, it’s cool.”

“We’re here to talk about _the case_ , Sam,” Dean stresses.

“If you’re bored, go wait in the car,” Sam quips, which earns him a death glare from his older brother.  He turns back to Stiles. “So alphas can bond their betas to the pack by killing? Derek doesn’t though, so how else can it work?”

“There’s a blood-bond and a word-bond.”

“How’re you bonded?”

Stiles doesn’t answer for a second because it occurs to him that he’s not _really_ bonded in yet—there was the accidental word-bond that he still does, but he doesn’t feel anything from that, just Derek. He hasn’t blood-bonded because Derek sucks at explaining things and he wants a little more concrete explanation before he agrees—technically he’s still in his free trial period with the pack.

“Sorry, maybe that’s a personal question,” Sam says, mistaking Stiles’ pause.  “I guess bonding’s kind of a big deal.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles assures him, still impressed the hunter cares enough to ask and be respectful about it.   “I’m word and blood, same as the others.” _Or I will be soon enough._  

Sam nods, just absorbing the information; Dean glowers at Stiles like he’s betrayed the whole of humanity. 

“Does the bond give you a supernatural tie to each other?”

“Yeah, but it’s—” _impossible to explain because I don’t have it yet._ “hard to explain.  The main thing is to know if they’re killing to bond, the wolves that have been taken are fully aligned with the new pack now.” 

“Right, to make the alpha pack stronger.”

“But if it was only numbers they needed, they could just take on betas, or go to one pack and take several.  There’s no need to sweep the state, so _why_ are they going after these particular ones? There’s got to be some method to the madness, right?”

“They’re different genders, different ages, different backgrounds,” Sam says, eyes sweeping over the information pinned to the wall.  “There’s got to be something we’re missing.”

“If we can figure out what they want, then we can profile who they want from Beacon Hills, but, until then, I don’t know that there’s much else we can do.  We’ll just have to keep digging to find whatever we’re missing.”

“Does Derek have any contact with any packs in those areas?”

“He’s tried to get in touch with them. They claim they don’t know anything about the attacks, and there’s not much else we can do to get them to talk without it coming across as a full challenge. They all seem pretty adamant that they don’t want us digging.”

“Which is a red flag, but one you can’t pursue.”

“Exactly.”

“ _We_ could,” Dean says.

Scott rises to his feet, eyes flashing gold just a moment before he regains control as Stiles replies with a firm, “No way.  You’re in a treaty with us, anything idiotic you do in regard to those packs they’ll hold us accountable for.”

  “We won’t contact them without speaking to your alpha first,” Sam assures him.  “Right, Dean?”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.  Don’t want us to help; we won’t.”

“That wouldn’t be helping,” Stiles says. “That would be putting your dumbass self in the middle of a pack war.”

Dean shrugs in a I-don’t-give-a-fuck way that makes Stiles want to strangle him.

Sam pulls them back to the issue at hand by saying, “If we’re right about this pattern, they’ll want whoever they’re planning to take from Beacon Hills by the full moon.”

“Nine days,” Scott says automatically, even though he’s returned to his seat as is seemingly focused on his homework.  Both humans turn to stare at him, and he shrugs. “What? It’s like ingrained in my internal clock or something.”

“Nine days, then,” Stiles repeats.

“Probably sooner,” Sam amends. “They’ve got to get them before the moon if they’re going to kill together that night.”

“A week to sort through an entire town of candidates,” Stiles groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Fucking fantastic.”

“Focus on the pack,” Lydia insists. “I told you they’re not turning people.”

“Right, well—” _I don’t really want to think about the fact they’re trying to claim someone in the pack._ “Wouldn’t hurt to look outside the pack just in case _._ ”

Lydia shoots him a look that clearly conveys he’s going to do what she told him if he knows what’s good for him.  He gulps just a little. 

“But, yeah, of course we’ll look at the pack stuff.” She nods her approval. Sam smiles at the two of them. 

 “Let me know if you find anything,” Sam requests, packing up his bag.  “I’ll probably be at the library next couple days if you want company researching.”

“Thanks for the offer.  We’ll see.”

“How long have you been putting together stuff like this?” Sam asks, gesturing to the compilation of information on the wall as they walk past it to the door.

Stiles shrugs. “I dunno. Forever?  I mean I’ve always snooped on my dad’s cases, so I guess it comes from that.”

“You ever think about making a career out of it?” Sam asks as he and his brother stand to leave.

Stiles stops short for just a second, caught off guard.  Despite all of the research and case studying he’s done, no one has ever actually asked him that before, though the thought has crossed his own mind several times.

"Well first, I’ve got to survive this crap with the alpha pack,” Stiles replies. He knows he’s deflecting, but, with everything that’s been going on lately, he’s been taking it a day at a time.  At this point, he’ll be happy if they all see graduation.  Everything else, is just—how did Finstock put it?—cream cheese.

But apparently Sam isn’t going to let it go that easily, he says sincerely, “Well, you should really think about it.  Someone on the right side of the law that knows about the supernatural is a big asset.  Our family’s got a couple of contacts who flag cases for us.  Saves some innocent people from prison and gets rid of the real threats.  I think you’d be perfect for it.”

_You’re supposed to be a big, badass hunter, Sam.  Why the hell is your_ _sincere puppy dog look is worse than Scott’s?? Jeez..._

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Stiles replies, no match for the eyes. Sam smiles a little and nods his approval.

“Good. You should.”

“Well, we’ll see you guys later.” Dean goes out the door first. Sam pauses for a second in the threshold and turns around to look at Stiles.

“Extend my thanks to your alpha for allowing us in pack territory.”

“We will,” Stiles assures him with a nod and a smile. 

A moment later Sam is out the door. Stiles locks in behind the hunters and returns to the kitchen. 

"Why’d he ask you to thank Derek?” Scott asks.

“He’s researching us.  I guess he’s seen the custom in his sources.  Technically what belongs to any one member of the pack becomes territory of the whole pack, and it’s customary for a visiting pack to ask permission of the alpha any time they plan to cross any boundary lines.  I’m pretty sure we’re not organized enough to start learning all the old customs yet, given that we’re a little busy just trying not to die, but it’s a nice gesture.”

“He seems nice,” Scott says, almost grudgingly.  “Too bad his brother’s an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees.

It’s the most endorsement the hunter is probably going to get, but Stiles will take what he can get with the fragile peace they were working under.

“So you think you can figure out who they’re coming for?” Scott asks anxiously.

“Yeah, I think so,” Stiles replies, forcing a smile, and it isn’t until he sees Scott’s forehead crease in worry that he realizes his friend probably heard the lie in his words.

 

           

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek has done all that he can to ensure that this dinner at the Stilinskis will be as small a disaster as possible.  Jackson, Scott, and Isaac have been threatened within an inch of their lives about bickering with each other.   Jackson has been reminded to plaster a smile on his face and be polite even if it kills him. He made sure Peter politely declined the invitation so that Lydia will come.  He even drops by the store to grab a couple packs of Oreos and some milk. Something about this being a “pack bonding” event makes it impossible to ignore his mom’s voice in the back of his head repeating just as it did throughout his childhood that _when someone invites you over for a dinner, Derek Lee Hale, it is impolite to show up empty-handed_.  Of course, _she_ usually called ahead and asked what to bring or brought some excellent homemade dessert or something. 

He looks down at the bag of cheap cookies and milk as he gets out of the car and sighs.

 _You are such a dude,_ Laura’s voice teases.  

 _Eh, better than nothing,_ he thinks to himself.

He can hear them all chattering inside as he walks up.  Jackson seems to be taking the “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say a fucking word” rule very seriously.  Lydia is the center of attention, of course, but he’s honestly glad.  She hasn’t declared any loyalty to the pack, but she’s with Jackson. She  saved Jackson—saved all of them—which makes her pack by default.   Derek welcomes any chance to get her included, hoping she’ll join outright eventually, but, after everything she’s been through these past months, he sure as hell isn’t pushing the pack life on her.

Isaac opens the door before Derek can knock.  He looks happy, relaxed.  It’s good to see.  In fact, the whole pack is spread out around the living room watching—

“Teen Wolf?” Derek asks the room at large.  “Seriously?”

“ _Stiles_ thought it was a _hilarious_ idea,” Jackson replies, in a voice clearly conveying he’d like to choke the life out of Stiles for forcing them to watch this.

“Come on. It’s kind of funny,” Scott agues. 

“It’s a cult classic,” Isaac agrees with a grin.  “Besides, puts things in perspective.  At least we look a little more badass than that when we shift.”

“What’s in the bag?” Scott wants to know.

“Oreos and milk.”

“Why’d you bring those?”

Derek shrugs. 

“Because clearly he’s an awesome alpha,” Stiles replies, “and I’m not just saying that so he’ll take into account that at least one of those packs should be set aside for human consumption because really I can’t compete with the werewolf fight that will ensue to get the most of them.”  Derek rolls his eyes as Stiles takes the bag from him.  “I’ll stick the milk in the fridge. The burgers should be done soon.  Dad’s finishing up the last of them now.  Grab a seat or whatever.”

Much to Derek’s surprise, the next few hours pass fairly easily.  When he’s not interrogating Derek about his plans to protect Stiles, the Sheriff fills a room with the same easy-going air that his son does.  It seems the hospitality of the two Stilinski men has the whole pack at ease.  Even Jackson seems to be begrudgingly enjoying himself and, even though he protests when Lydia wants to stay and play Wii games with everyone else, Derek sees the small smile that plays at Jackson’s lips as he sits nestled in the couch with one arm over Lydia’s shoulders. As the night continued to wind down and everyone else is still occupied with the latest tournament of Mario Kart, Derek insists on helping the Sheriff clean up the mess his pack has left in the kitchen.

“They’re a good group of kids,” the Sheriff observes as he and Derek take the garbage down to the curb, though both men know Derek could easily carry both gargantuan bags by himself.

“Yeah, they are,” Derek agrees, unsure where this conversation was headed, especially after the awkward talk a couple days ago.  If the sheriff slathers him in pity again, Derek just might break a couple of his own “be nice if it fucking kills you” rules.

“Where does the group usually hang out?”

_We don’t hang out._

“We train every other day,” Derek tells him, though the sheriff knows that.

“Stiles says you train at your family’s old house?”

“It’s secluded enough for us to shift without being seen.”

“You ever think about rebuilding?” Derek shrugs noncommittally.  “I know it’s not really my business,” the Sheriff continues, since apparently unsolicited advice is a Stilinski specialty.  “But I think you should. Living with their ghosts—it’s no way to live.  I left Joanna’s coat on the hook by the door for months after she was gone, left all her makeup in the bathroom, all her clothes in the closet.  It hurt like hell to box them up, but I had to eventually.  We couldn’t move on with constant reminders that she was never coming back.  The ache stays, but it fades it to something more manageable eventually.  That burnt out husk of a house isn’t the way they’d want to be remembered; If you _really_ want to keep their memory around, rebuild the house and fill it up with people you care about.”

The man has no idea how trivial his pain looks to Derek—Derek who’s lost _everyone_ and whose punishment is to live with the knowledge that he brought it upon himself—but the sheriff’s nevertheless dealt with agonizing loss in his own right.  It’s not pity in the sheriff’s eyes this time; it’s some kind of kindred grief.  Derek still doesn’t reply though; he honestly doesn’t know how to.

“I think it would be good for all of you to have a place for the pack,” the sheriff says as he starts walking back toward the house.  “In the meantime, you’re all welcome here of course.”

“Thanks, Sheriff,” Derek says, glad to finally have a statement he can respond to.

When they walk back in, the pack is still gathered comfortably in the living room, and the sense of contentment radiating through the room is almost overwhelming.

It’s nearly eleven by the time they all start to trail out.  No one seems to want to leave. Jackson offers Isaac a ride home without Derek having to tell him to.  Lydia asks Stiles about setting up another day of gun range training.  Scott’s reminding Isaac of the plan they made to meet up and hang out the next afternoon.  Derek can’t help the small smile that crosses his face.  This is the most he’s ever seen them naturally acting like a pack.  This isn’t survival-driven battle connections; this is the kind of network pack is supposed to be.

Derek replays the words the Sheriff said in his head over and over again as he drives back to his dingy apartment.  He knows in his gut that rebuilding the house is the right thing to do, that it’s what his family would want. They wouldn’t want him dwelling on everything that’s been lost. That’s what he and Laura told each other over and over through the years.

He doesn’t deserve to move on.  He should _have_ to feel that pang in his gut every time the ruin of his home comes into view.  He deserves that and so much more. 

The thing is, with the pack training there, it’s already starting to lessen the ache in his chest that comes with seeing the old house.  Nothing will ever erase what happened there—the bad or the good. He’s well aware he’s going to carry his guilt and regret for the rest of his life.

_You’ve got a new family to think about.  It doesn’t matter what you want or what you think you deserve.  Your pack needs this if they’re going to be a team. If you really want to live up to the Hale family business, you’ve gotta up your game._

Even though it’s past midnight, he does a quick search for the number of a local home construction company and leaves them a message to call him first thing in the morning.   He sighs as he hangs up the phone, already half regretting making the call.  This is probably going to just end up being another pain in his ass. 

 _It’s not about you,_  Laura reminds him again. _Suck it up, buttercup._

 _  
_He drifts off to sleep with his brain still conjuring uninvited ideas of how to remake the house, and he dreams of his family.

 

 


	8. Chapter 7

Sam’s pouring over all the information he was able to get on the Hale pack for the millionth time, but he’s no closer to understanding who the alphas want than he was two days ago in the Stilinski kitchen.  He’s frustrated beyond all reason, and it doesn’t take much convincing for Dean to get him to take a break.  They drive around looking for a place to eat until they find a local joint that looks promising.  It’s a seat-yourself kind of place, and the back corner booth is open so they take their seats and start looking over the menu.

“Sam,” Dean says quietly, and Sam knows that tone; he’s immediately at alert, searching for the threat his brother’s trying to call his attention to.

Isaac Lahey approaches their table slowly.  Both Winchesters stay where they are, tensed and ready. Dean’s right hand twitches, and Sam knows he’s itching to place it on his gun.  Once Sam takes in the sight of the kid’s name badge and the notepad he’s pulling out of his pocket, he remembers Isaac’s file.

“He works here,” Sam tells his brother.

“Excellent deduction, Sherlock,” Isaac says wryly when he comes to the table.  “I don’t know what you want, but anything you have to say to the pack goes through Derek.”

“We’re not here to give you a hard time,” Sam assures him.  “Dean saw the sign for the pie. We forgot you worked here.  Honest mistake.” He gives Isaac an earnest smile.  “I’m Sam; this is my brother Dean.”

Isaac doesn’t smile back.   “I know who you are,” the teen replies. He sighs heavily when they don’t move to leave. “Okay, what d’you want to drink?”   

“Coffee,” Dean tells him, looking over the menu.  “Black.”

“I’ll have coffee too, but can I get some cream?”

“Sure. Be right back.”

Dean looks up from the menu to scowl at Isaac’s back as he walks away.

“He looks healthier than he did in the picture for his file,” Sam comments.  “Maybe being in the pack—”

 “If by healthier you mean freakishly werewolfier, the yeah sure,” Dean cuts in.

“No, by healthier I mean he looks like he’s not living with an abusive father and has friends and a normal job,” Sam counters.  “Now, be nice so he doesn’t spit in your food.”

“Dude, that’s not funny.  The spit can turn you—you don’t think he’d—”

“Oh my god, Dean.  They’re not plotting the demise of the world here.  They’re teenagers.  What part of that is so hard to understand? They go to school and do homework and work crap jobs for crap pay just like every other teenager.”

“Except for the part where they turn into—”

“Would you give it a rest for five seconds?  Let’s just eat, okay?”

“Maybe we should go someplace else.”

“You really that scared?”

“Hey, I am _not_ fucking scared of some teenager,” he protests. “I’m just saying I’m not exactly a fan of having a werewolf as a waiter.  Maybe you were joking about the spit thing, but—”

“I’m sure you’re safe, Dean.  Not a single one of them wants _you_ as a packmate. They’d never turn you—kill you maybe, sure—but that’s assuming I don’t strangle you first for making this truce and this case ten times more difficult than you need to.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

Isaac returns with two empty cups, creamer, and a pot of coffee. 

 “Thanks,” Sam says as Isaac pours.

 “Drink up,” Isaac urges, with a bright smile.  “I made a brand new pot, _just_ for you guys,” he adds, making eye contact with Dean, whose cup had just reached his lips.

Dean freezes.  Isaac chuckles.

“Relax, I’m just fucking with you,” he admits.  “Werewolf hearing, remember? Or don’t you two do any research?”

“You little shit,” Dean mutters with a glare at Isaac; Sam’s trying and failing to hold in his own laughter.

Isaac rolls his eyes, clearly unaffected by the insult.  “I didn’t spit in your coffee; I won’t spit in your food; and I expect a decent tip, got it?”

“Deal,” Sam agrees, still laughing hysterically at the bitchface his brother’s wearing as he continues to eye his coffee warily.   

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“I thought you were going to bed.”

Stiles jumps at the sound of his dad’s voice at the top of the stairs.  He’s in the basement in what will eventually be his badass armory, but right now is still just a hastily-drywalled half-basement with a bookshelf, a card table, a chair stolen from the table upstairs, and a large corkboard.   He’d at least lined it with mountain ash when he got home from school so it’s mostly werewolf-proof (ish) now.  Pinned to the corkboard is everything Stiles knows about the four recruits, transferred from the wall upstairs, the same damn conglomeration of facts he’s been staring at for what seems like forever.

“I did,” Stiles replies.  “I slept for a little while.”

“When’s the last time you got a full night’s sleep, kiddo?” his dad asks, descending the stairs slowly.

“I’m fine, dad.”

“Losing sleep isn’t going to help you think any better.”

“How many cases have you lost sleep over?” Stiles counters; his dad doesn’t reply.  “I can’t get this out of my head.  They could be going for someone in the pack. They could be planning to turn an innocent person.” Because Stile still wasn’t prepared to assume who the alphas were after; there just weren’t enough _facts._ No matter how good Lydia’s point sounded.  “Regardless of who they’re after, the pack’s probably got a fight coming soon, and we’ve got to know what this alpha pack wants if we’re going to figure out how to win it.  People are dead, my friends might be the next target, and I can’t figure out _why._ It’s driving me crazy.”

He father sighs.  “Welcome to the world of law enforcement, son,” he says, clapping a hand on Stiles shoulder.  “You’ve just got to keep digging up information and going over it until something finally clicks.”

“I’m really fine.  You can go back to bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep either.  Why do you think I was coming down here?”

Stiles smiles.  “It’s kind of great to work a case _with_ you instead of getting grounded for snooping.”

“It’s nice not to ground you for interfering in police business.”

“ _Interfering_?”

“Yes, interfering,” his dad repeats, unforgiving.  “There are rules for a reason, Stiles.  Now, which bit’s nagging at your mind enough to keep you up?”

“We’ve tried to connect the recruits from every angle, and there’s no trend for all four of them.  I feel like maybe the clue we need is somewhere in the Miller kid’s case.  If we could be sure of the wolfsbane in the bullet or a picture of the flare thing or _something_ to confirm he’s a werewolf, then we would at least know for sure they’re coming after wolves and they want someone in our pack. It’s not like knowing that is even going to give us enough to go off of, but at least I’d feel like our theories aren’t entirely shots in the dark.”

There’s a small moment of silence, and Stiles runs his hand down his face in frustration. “I _hate_ being totally clueless about what they’re planning,” he huffs.  “This sucks!”

“The picture flare,” his dad repeats pensively, clearly having tuned out the last bit of his son’s words.  “I forgot about that.”

“We’ve looked for pictures of all of them, but we haven’t found many.  They’ve all got DMV photos that are normal, but they could’ve been turned after then or photoshopped.  Nothing concrete.”

“Would the flare show up in a video?”

“Maybe? In theory it should I guess.  I could ask Derek.”

“Miller was 200 miles from home, he must’ve passed a camera.  Gotten cash, bought food, stopped for gas, and if we could get that camera footage we could see.  He was running the whole way, we might even get lucky enough to catch a glimpse of these alphas.  It’s a long shot, but maybe it’s enough.”

“Oh my God, Dad! That’s fu—freakin’ brilliant! I’m calling Sam.”

“It’s three a.m.”

“He said I could call whenever.”

Sam answers on the third ring.  “Stiles?”

“Hey, Sam, How solid is your FBI agent impersonation stuff?”

“Solid enough. Why? What’s up?”

“We’ve got an idea.”

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“What is it?” Dean asks his brother, sitting up groggily in bed. 

As soon as he hung up the phone, Sam’s already at the rickety table by the window booting up his computer. 

“We’re going to track Jeremy Miller’s credit cards to see if he stopped anywhere with a camera while he was running.  We’ll hopefully at least get a confirmation that he’s a werewolf—maybe even get a glimpse of the werewolves after him.”

“How did we not think of that?”

“We were looking at the people, at their backgrounds to connect them for a victimology.  We didn’t stop to look individually.  I didn’t think about tracking him; it’s not like we needed to know where he ended up.”

“Think you can hack in?”

“Yeah, I just need a little time,” Sam assures him.  He grins, “Stiles wanted to know how good my FBI cover was.  I’ll have to tell them they just need to recruit a good hacker—or Lydia and Stiles could learn I guess.”

“Don’t give them too many pointers, dude.  They’re enough trouble as they are.”

“You know, they could be on our side.”

“Yeah, as soon as hell freezes over.”

“I’m serious. The way Stiles put that stuff together.  He could totally flag cases.  If we tell them how to kill things, they could even—”

“Can we just work the case, Sam?” Dean asks, plopping back onto the bed.  “We just need to save their freaking little werewolf asses and get the hell out of here.”

Sam freezes and looks over at his brother.  Dean looks over to see what causes the clicking of the computer keys to stop.

“What?” he asks.

“When did this start being about _saving_ them and not about killing the alphas.”

 “Same thing.”

“Sure,” Sam replies, quirking an eyebrow.

“It’s just two birds with one stone; that’s all,” Dean says dismissively. 

_Yeah, maybe so, but the part you focused on out loud was the bit about saving the Hale Pack._

Sam doesn’t push it, even though he wants to give his brother a big “I told you so.” Looks like the little ragtag pack is growing on Dean after all.  Sam smiles as he goes back to the computer.

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek’s been standing here, looking up at the shell of his home since the contractor left ten minutes ago.  It seems a bit surreal that he put this in motion.  He’s surprised at how _right_ this decision feels in this moment.  Something about planning for the pack beyond the imminent alpha fight makes having pack seem permanent, makes him want to believe he won’t be the last man standing again. He’s not sure yet if this kind of thinking is an asset or a weakness.

“I saw the truck leave.  You’re rebuilding the house?” Peter asks as he walks in through the creaking front door.

 He doesn’t turn to look at his uncle when he eventually replies.  “It’s what they would have wanted. The pack needs a place.”

“About time you figured that out. Glad to see some follow-through on acting like and adult and less like a control freak teenager on a power trip.”

"Where’ve you been?” Derek asks, ignoring the insult because a retort is exactly what Peter wants to hear.  “You smell like—”

“Another pack?  I know.  I went to see the alpha of the Grisham Pack in Southern California. You remember the Grishams.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m leaving.”

Derek can’t stop his eyes from flashing red, instinctively protective of anything Pack. 

Peter scoffs.  “What? You thought I was going to hang out with you and your annoying, hormonal teen wolves forever? I’ve already fallen back to beta.  I’m around just enough to keep from being omega. You’ve noticed, but you haven’t said anything.  Don’t start caring about my pack allegiance now.”

Derek had noticed, and he’d honestly hoped it meant Peter was thinking of finding a new pack.   Derek couldn’t bring himself to kick Peter out of the pack, but Peter leaving of his own accord would remove a lot of issues.  It would make the pack stronger; having an outlier like Peter wasn’t good for the bonds.  Lydia might actually spend more time at training—maybe even join the pack.  And, even if Derek could ever convince himself to forgive Peter for what he did in the name of avenging his family, he could never forget that Peter murdered Laura to do it. 

“When?”

“As soon as we finish this conversation.”

“Because you want to be gone before the alphas come.”

“Obviously,” Peter confirms in that condescending tone that makes Derek want to slash that smirk off his uncle’s face.  

“We’re not going to lose.”

“You’re not going to win either, Derek.  You have to know that.  You’re not naïve enough to expect everyone to survive this.  We both know your best bet is to wave the white flag and give the alphas whoever the hell they want. Keep the casualties to a minimum.”

That exact plan of action has been burning in the back of Derek’s mind for days now.  He knows Peter’s right, and he hates it—hates feeling defeated before they even start.

“Cut your losses, Derek,” Peter advises, “If you fight them, it won’t matter if you rebuild the house or not because you won’t have any pack left to fill it.” 

“Stiles is working on it; once we know, more we can—”

“He’ll probably die first, won’t he?” Peter cuts in.  “Having humans in a pack this new is never a good idea; you know that.   We had generations to build up our strength to be sure we could keep our humans safe.  You can’t protect him.”

“Is that the argument you came up with when you decided to offer him the bite?” Derek asks, seeing an opportunity to redirect this conversation and leaping at it.  “That you were _protecting_ him?”

“I wasn’t exactly my usual self at the time,” Peter replies simply.   “He told you I offered? Did he figure out what I was—”

“No, he doesn’t seem to know what it meant.  It just came up because I offered him the bite—the _usual_ pack bite—and he talked about you being impatient—teeth hovering over his wrist? Were you really going to—”

“I wasn’t my usual self,” Peter repeats.

Derek shakes his head and tries not to shudder at the idea.  He wants all of the blame to fall on Kate for what Peter became—for the twisted parts of it that linger even in his resurrected form.  A lot of the blame does lie with Kate, but Derek also knows that some part of Peter plotted to kill Laura, planned what he was doing when he went after Scott, deliberately chose Stiles to offer that bite to, and was willing to sacrifice Lydia’s sanity for his own resurrection. He isn’t the uncle Derek grew up knowing; he’s a different man entirely, and, in some ways, that’s worse than Peter being dead like the others.

“You didn’t need his help to find me that night. I stole Scott’s phone in case they took me too far, but you could have found me without it.”

“Easily,” Peter agrees, “if it occurred to Scott to howl to find you, of course the same occurred to me.”

“But you still went after Stiles and Lydia. You were making a new pack.”

“Scott was being compromised by a hunter’s daughter and his annoyingly overactive conscience; you were either going to die at the hands of the Argents or fight me to the death.  I needed a new pack, and I was being _much_ more strategic than the first time around.  They’d have made excellent betas.  Pity it didn’t work out.”

Derek’s control snaps and his fangs descend as he growls at Peter, who recoils just slightly though his face doesn’t change.

“You should think about what I said before,” Peter advises as he turns to leave.  “I don’t think you’ve got it in you to lose your whole pack twice.”

“I’m not losing them,” Derek says firmly.

“I hope you’re right,” Peter says more earnestly than Derek expects, “but don’t count on it.”

 He shifts into beta form and heads off through the woods.  Derek gets the feeling he won’t see Peter for a while.  He’s just a little ashamed of how relieved he feels about that. 

 _Don’t listen to him,_ Laura’s voice pleads.  _He’s just trying to scare you into being safe.  It’ll be okay._

He wishes he believed her.

 

 

****************************************************************************

 

 It takes Sam longer than expected to track Jeremy Miller’s debit card, the one for the account he shared with his now-dead father because he’s only sixteen.  The idea still makes Sam’s gut twist.  Out of all the recruits, ages all the way up to twenty-seven, this kid, the youngest by more than a decade, was the only one with the guts to stand up to these monsters.

And it cost him not only his life, but everyone he loved.

He finds what he’s hoping for in the records.  Jeremy stopped at an ATM before he left town and took out all five hundred and some odd dollars he had saved there.   Getting the footage from the camera is a different story altogether.  He ends up calling Ash and asking for a favor; by three that afternoon, Sam finds himself staring at a video of a terrified sixteen-year-old whose eyes are glowing a supernaturally fluorescent blue. 

Stiles is in school, so Sam opts for a text.

“Got a video.  Call when you can.”

His phone rings less than two minutes later.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

“Dude, no way in hell I was just going to sit there after that text.  School’s out in like twenty minutes anyway. You got a video? Anything with his eyes?”

“Yeah, there’s something, but it’s not the same as the photo flare.  His irises are a constant glowing blue, like Scott’s went gold the other day. Is blue a different kind of werewolf or something?”

“I’m not sure.  Send me the video.  I’m going to talk to Derek.”

“Let me know what he says. I’ll see what Chris knows about it.”

“Later then.”

“Later.”

 

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

               

“What?” Derek asks as he answers Stiles’ call.

“Where are you? I’ve got something to show you. Sam found a video of the Jeremy Miller. His eyes were glowing blue on the tape. It looks like the alphas are definitely going for werewolves.”

“Blue?”

“Yeah. Does that mean something?”

“No.”

“Don’t need werewolf hearing to know that was a lie.  What’s it mean?”

“Where are the others?”

“Still in class.   No pack in my sixth period so they didn’t see me leave, and I didn’t want to wait for them to catch up.”

“I’ll meet you at your house.  I want to see this video before we tell them anything.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, a feeling of apprehension building in his chest.  “Seriously, dude, what do blue eyes mean? I thought it was just a random—”

“It’s just a fairy tale,” Derek replies. “I’ll explain when I see you.”

“Why can’t you just—”

But Derek’s already hung up the phone.  Stiles huffs and drives a little faster toward home. 

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Argent.”

“We got video of the Miller kid.  Looks like they’re coming for werewolves.”

“Did you get anything else? Why him?”

“His eyes are blue, not gold. Does that mean something to you?” There’s silence on the other end of the line.  “Chris? You still there?”

“There’s a legend—betas born with blue eyes are rare, and they’re powerful. I need to check some facts with the old lore. Bring the video to my house.”

“We’ll be there in five.”

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek’s been waiting a little over five minutes when Stiles pulls up.  He’s on edge now, knowing for these alphas want part of his pack.  In the five minutes he waits for Stiles, he almost dials the younger boy’s number twice thinking something must have happened.

_Deep breaths, bro.  Keep your shit together._

“I sent the others to the house,” Derek tells Stiles.  “If they’re coming for werewolves, training just got a lot more serious.  You’re still armed at all times?”

“Yeah, I can’t take the gun to school, but I got the mountain ash.  I’m not an idiot.” Derek thought that last point could be argued, but didn’t press it. 

“Good, now let’s see the video for ourselves.”

It’s not a long video, just a few minutes, but it’s enough for Jeremy’s eyes to glow into the camera a couple of times.  There’s no doubting he’s a blue-eyed beta.

"So blue eyes,” Stiles says, closing out of the video.  “Clearly a werewolf, but what’s with the blue? It means something?”

“I told you.  It’s a fairy tale.”

“So are werewolves, dude.”

“It’s a legend—about the beginning of werewolves,” Derek expounds.  “My grandma used to tell it to me when I was really young. I hardly even remember it.”

He doesn’t want it to be true.  He doesn’t want there to be some big huge destiny out there for blue-eyed betas.  The chaos he’s got is more than enough to deal with already.  If the stories are true…

“Just tell the damn story, Derek,” Stiles insists. “You’re killing me here!”

Derek glares at him. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Or, ya know, take your time,” Stiles replies with a huff.

Derek doesn’t want to tell this story.  It seems childish to believe in it.  He can’t tell it right, anyway; his grandma had always been the storyteller. This is supposed to be a fun story his she used to tell him when Laura and his cousins made fun of his eyes. It was just something to supplement the reminder that his granddad’s and mother’s eyes glowed blue too.  It isn’t supposed to be true; it isn’t supposed to put his pack in danger.

Stiles lasts all of fifteen seconds before he’s flailing impatiently again. 

“Seriously, spill, dude! Enough of the mysterious, brooding werewolf thing.”

Derek sighs and begins, “There’s a legend about the way we began.  They say there were five werewolves at the start.  Those five were created as equals, and then they turned others to grow the race,” he doesn’t have the same tone of magic and mystery his grandmother used to use; he’s just regurgitating words, and he hater the sound of the familiar story in his own curt voice.  “They say the first five and all their children and their children’s children had blue eyes.  The turned wolves had gold.  It was the original designation of pack rank. The first five were supposed to rule the others, like royalty or something. I dunno.”

 _My little prince_ , his grandma had joked, before admonishing that, _No that doesn’t mean you get to be the boss the other kids._

He tears his mind away from the memory and continues, “They say the blue eyes died away as werewolves chose humans as mates, and each pack was left to fend for itself.  The existence of blue-eyed betas became more and more rare. Five of them never existed in any one generation ever again.  But it was said that one day, there would be a pack of five again, all born in a single generation, and they’d rise up together to recreate an alpha pack like the original.  A pack to rule together over all the wolves as if they all served the same alpha. A global, unstoppable pack.”

“One pack to rule them all,” Stiles jokes.

Derek glowers at him. Stiles is the one who wanted to hear this damn story. Derek _told_ him it was just a fairy tale.  Stiles doesn’t need to rub in how dumb this sounds.  Stiles takes a step back from the glare and holds up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, dude. Couldn’t resist,” Stiles says almost bashfully.

“I told you it was just a stupid legend.”

“So how do you really get blue eyes? Is it random?”

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 “So it’s genetic?” Sam asks, trying to understand the centuries-old phenomena Chis is catching the Winchesters up on.  “A recessive trait?”

“Something like that. Blue-eyed betas were all but extinct two hundred years ago. Then reports about them started turning up more and more often.  We heard the Hale pack had three born to them three generations in a row.  It’s the whole reason Gerard and Kate moved to Beacon Hills back before the fire.  They were watching them.”

“Are they really that much more dangerous if they have blue eyes?”

 “Alone, no, but the belief prevalent throughout the lore is that if they can get enough of them from the same generation, five as it was in the beginning, that they could recreate the original order and unite all the werewolves as one pack.”

“So a bloodbath across globe,” Dean says.  “Awesome.”

“We can’t let that happen. Whatever it takes, it’s not worth the risk,” Argent says firmly. 

“They’ll need Derek and Jackson,” Sam says, “but if it’s genetic, how is Jackson—”

“His biological parents.”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“So you’re telling me Jackson’s real parents were werewolves?!” Stiles exclaims, his mind reeling. 

“Just his father.  The car crash wasn’t an accident. His father had come to Beacon Hills after losing all but one of his betas.  They could have joined our pack, but he didn’t want to give up his status as alpha.  He started turning locals almost as soon as he got here, trying to build up a pack to challenge ours for the right to stay in Beacon Hills.  The hunters who’d originally attacked his pack followed them here, stormed into town, and took matters into their own hands.  Their plan was rushed and stupid.  Jackson’s mother wasn’t supposed to be in the car—not that they really cared.  They even followed the ambulance to the hospital to make sure the infants weren’t werewolves.  Jackson wasn’t, and my father stopped the hunters before they could get to his brother.”

“Jackson has a twin?” _Jeez and the mind fucks just keep on coming._

“Apparently,” Derek replies with a shrug.  “This is all just something Peter told me when he found out Jackson was the kamina, who knows how much truth there is to it? I was six at the time; they didn’t exactly let me sit in on pack defense meetings.”

“What happened to his brother?”

“They found a pack to take him.”

“Where?”

“Some pack near Fresno.”

“Near Fresno?” Stiles repeats, pieces of information clicking into place in his mind.  “A sixteen-year-old, who’s adopted, living near Fresno and a werewolf? Well, I know at least one person who fits the description.”

“Jeremy Miller,” Derek  confirms with a grim nod.  “The pieces fit, and I don’t believe in that much coincidence.  Not with both of them having the blue eyes.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Stiles mutters, trying to catalog all the information rushing at him after spending days staring at the same facts.  “But that would make six of you in one generation,” Stiles says, doing the math.  “You said there are only supposed to be five.”

“Jackson wasn’t supposed to be a werewolf,” Derek says.  “He wasn’t born that way; I turned him, and it gave the genes or whatever a chance to show.”

Derek doesn’t say it out loud, but an unspoken “it’s my fault there are still five” is written all over the miserable glower on his face.  Stiles will never undertand how Derek always manages to simultaneously look as though he might need a hug but might also rip your head off it you give him one.

“Hey,” Stiles says shoving on Derek’s shoulder, which earns him a glare but at least gets the angsty, brooding look to go away.  “Jackson begged for the bite, and there is no way in a million years you could have suspected that giving him the bite would make him the fifth piece of some weirdo werewolf cult’s attempt to take over the world.  This is not your fault.”

 

 ***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

               

Stiles computer is still frozen on the last frame of the video, and Derek can’t quite tear his eyes away from the terrified teenager’s face.  The kid thought he could resist the alphas, but they took everything that mattered and Jeremy ended up dead anyway.  Derek wonders if, in the end, the kid wished he’d just put the bullet in his chest to begin with—wonders if that would’ve been the best way to protect the people he’d cared about.

Derek can’t keep Peter’s words from creeping into the back of his mind. _You’re not naïve enough to expect everyone to survive this…Your best bet is to wave the white flag…I don’t think you’ve got it in you to lose your whole pack twice._

“I mean it, Derek,” Stiles insists.  “You could not have seen this coming.  No time for angsting. What do we do now?”

“The hunters know the alphas want me and Jackson by now.  The Argents know all the lore for the blue eyes.” 

He can still Kate’s voice taunting, You’re _supposed to be a living legend, Derek.  I’m disappointed.  This would be so much more fun if you could put up a decent fight—but you’re not more a match for me now than you were all those years ago._

“We’re in a treaty, won’t that keep them from—”

“You know the Argent and the Winchester reputation.  You think they’re willing to risk it if the legend is true? I don’t know what they’ll do to make sure the alphas don’t’ get us.”

 Stiles rubs a hand across his face; he wants to protest, but he doesn’t. “Shit,” he says finally. “We are so screwed. We’ve gotta  call the others and—”

“Actually, I don’t think the hunters are going to be the problem,” Derek says wearily, cutting Stiles off.   “Looks like the alphas are going to beat them to the punch after all.”

He can sense the alphas' presence.  They’re close. He can _just_ hear their heartbeats if he tries. They’re calm; they’re sure of their plan.  There are four of them, on foot, no farther than a quarter mile from the Stilinski house.

 "Don’t tell me—”

“They’re nearby. I can feel it.”

"What the hell kind of timing—our luck— _seriously?!”_

Derek would wonder what he did to deserve this much bad luck, but he already knows that answer. 

He grabs Stiles computer and starts typing furiously on the laptop, not wanting the alphas to hear: “If I don’t go with them, they’ll start going after the pack. We’re not ready for a fight, not even close to ready.  I’ve got to go with them.  You’ve got six days until the full moon to get me back if you can.  If you can’t, get the pack together and run—as far as you can get.   With me gone, the others will fight for the alpha spot. They won’t be able to help it. The alphas probably hope Jackson will win it so they don’t waste another lunar cycle making him an alpha so he can bond to them with a kill.  You have to get to Jackson before the fighting for alpha starts.  Find a way to stop him.  It’ll be hard for any of them to keep control with the pack under stress and the full moon coming.  Make sure they don’t hurt anyone and, if it comes to it, you’ll have to step in.  We take care of our own.  If they have to be stopped, it shouldn’t be the hunters.”

Stiles has been reading over his shoulder as he typed. 

“It’s not gonna come to that,” Stiles says firmly.

Derek nods once, wanting to believe him. 

“Now get to the basement.  I can’t protect you from them.” 

“Derek—”

“Just go to the goddamn basement, Stiles!”

“Don’t die, okay?”

“ _Stiles_...” he growls, shoving the boy toward the bedroom door.

“Right, running and hiding. Got it.”

Stiles sprints off toward the basement.  Derek waits a few moments and then begins to walk slowly down the stairs toward the front door.  He’s focusing on keeping his heartbeat even and the shift at bay.  If he fights at all, there’s an incredibly easy target in a haphazardly constructed safe room less than fifty feet away.  There’s no doubt in his mind that the alphas would use his human beta to keep Derek under control.

 _He’ll probably die first, won’t he?_ Peter’s words taunt, but Laura’s drown them out, insisting, “ _You’re a Hale_.  _You can do this.”_

He hopes to God she’s the one who’s right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm definitely learning it's a tough balance between getting the plot out coherently and keeping the pace of the story moving. My head canon for all this could have been twice this long and five times as boring, but if you're wondering about anything in particular or there's a hole you want filled, shoot me a comment here or on tumblr because I've probably got an answer for you. :) I think about this fic way too much in my free time :P


	9. Chapter 8

Derek’s reaching for the door knob when the door swings open, revealing a middle-aged man flanked by three other people.  One is in her sixties, if not older.  The last two are both young;  he recognizes from the first and fourth missing person reports, Sarah Masters and Grant Clepper.   Derek keeps fighting the incessant urge to shift, fights the instincts screaming for him to force them out of pack territory.

“Alpha Hale,” the man who opened the door greets with a nod and a smile that’s too wide.  “We’d like you to come with us.”

“Why?”

“We’ve been watching your whole pack since we got here. We know you’ve made all the connections.  You know exactly why you should come with us.”

 “It’s just a legend—a bedtime story for born wolves. It’s not actually true.  How can you _possibly_ believe the destiny of all werewolves lies in the coincidence of a few blue-eyed werewolves in California?”

“We are _devout_ believers of The Prophesy,” the werewolf replies, voice low and dangerous.  “You will speak of it with respect.”

“I’m not interested in joining up with you and your ‘devout believers.’ I have a pack.”

“This is all much bigger than what you may want.  The future of your entire species will be forever changed.  The value of your pack does not outweigh that.  If they mean so much to you, come with us now.   Your pack can’t fight us.  You know that.  We’d rip them apart, wolves and humans alike.”

Derek can feel his fangs starting to extend. He clenches his jaw tight.  He and just _barely_ pulls them back in. 

“You’ve reviewed the cases. You know how this works.  If you don’t put up a fight, only one of them has to die; we’ll even let you choose one to give indemnity from the chance of being your bond-kill. Sacrificing one member of your pack so that your entire species can rise as never before; it’s not such a terrible sacrifice when you push aside your own bias and think of the greater good. Joining us is what’s best for everyone; I certainly hope you can see that.”

   The man’s voice is syrupy sweet; he’s got s snug smile on his face. He’s sure he’s going to get what he wants, and Derek wants desperately to prove him wrong. It takes every ounce of control he has to remain human and rational enough to nod once. 

“Excellent.  I’m glad you can see the logical choice here”

Derek can’t stop the low growl that escapes him.

“It’s all for a greater good, Derek,” the alpha assures him again.  “You’ll see.  We’re not the bad guys here.”

They turn to walk away, and Derek slowly puts one foot in front of the other to follow.  It’s not just his pride that feels wounded as they cross the lawn and he falls into step with them.  He’s got a sick feeling in his stomach that he’s betraying his pack.  His instincts are roaring that no decent alpha would be able to surrender like this without at least trying to fight—no decent alpha could just walk away.

 _It’s the right choice!_ Laura’s voice insists, strengthening the fragile hold on his control.  _This is the only option right now. Stiles knows you didn’t just walk away.  You’re buying them time.  He’ll tell the others, and they’ll get a plan together.  With enough planning this will at least be a battle instead of a massacre. You’ve got to trust your pack to figure things out without you. In the meantime, you’ve got to play nice and suck it up, buttercup._

There is an unexpectedly strong sense of comfort in the fact that his subconscious can conjure up Laura’s favorite jab at him even in moments like these. 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles remains frozen by the vent he’s been listening at for a solid minute or two after the door shuts behind the alphas.  He’s not a werewolf.  His end of the connection is all mental, not supernatural.  Regardless, he feels a hollow dread growing as it starts to sink in that they’ve really taken the pack’s alpha.  There’s an all too familiar tightness in his chest as the panic starts to creep in.  He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes to center himself.

_Come on, Stiles. You can’t freak out right now.  You’ve got to figure out how the fuck to save Derek…and find Jackson…and convince Jackson not to kill anyone…or let Scott or Isaac kill anyone…all without getting yourself killed…or letting the hunters know we’re losing our shit…because they’d probably kill everyone…if the alphas don’t beat them to it…and…there is just no way fucking way this ends well._

But he can’t just do nothing—and maybe Stile has never made the winning shot in a werewolf fight, but he makes a damn decent distraction to turn the tide—it’ll have to be enough.  Because Derek doesn’t trust anyone to handle anything, but now he’s put the trust of keeping the pack together and planning an attack against the alphas in the hands of the sarcastic human who’s still in free trial mode.

_Talk about desperate times…_

So Stiles takes one last steadying breath and grabs his gun from the table. He bounds up the stairs, grabs his keys, heading for the Hale house.  He pulls out his phone to try calling Scott, but there’s already an incoming call.

“Hey, Sam,” Stiles says, trying to keep his voice even. 

“Have you seen Derek?” Sam wants to know

“Why? What’s up?” Stiles stalls.

“Argent says the blue eyes are important.  The alphas want Derek and Jackson.”

“Really?” Stiles feigns ignorance.  “Why?”

“Long story. It has to do with their eyes.  We can’t let them be taken.”

“Well, duh.”

“I mean it, Stiles. We can’t let the alphas get them. It’s too dangerous. We have to keep that from happening, no matter what it takes.”

And Stiles _really_ doesn’t like the somberness in Sam’s voice or the way he says ‘no matter what it takes.’  With that one sentence, Stiles is reminded like a punch to the gut that, no matter how well things might have been going with the truce, at the end of the day the hunters will sacrifice the lives of wolves if they think it will save the lives of humans.

“The Argents are going to help protect Jackson,” Sam tells him.  “We’re trying to reach Derek, but we can’t get in touch with him.  They may have taken him.”

“What? No, Derek’s totally fine,” Stiles assures the hunter.  “He’s headed here actually, to my house.” _Please don’t let me pass Sam and Dean on the road._    “I told him to come over and look at the video.”

“You talked to him?”

“Yeah, just a couple minutes ago.  He’s fine.  Besides, if he wasn’t the rest of the pack would know.  They’d tell me.  Why don’t you guys head over here, too?  You can tell us what Chris said about the eyes, and we’ll see if Derek can add anything.”

“Sounds good.”

“See ya.”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles hangs up, and Sam immediately dials Argent’s number.

“Go to the Stilinskis’ place,” Sam tells Dean as he presses send.  “Something’s up.”

“Argent,” Chris answers.

“Have you got Jackson?”

“No.  Allison says she never saw him after classes let out.  What about Derek?”

“Stiles claims Derek is coming to his house to look at the video, but there was something off when we talked. Something’s going on he’s not telling us.  We’re headed that way now.”

“We’ll meet you there.  Whether Derek is there or he isn’t, I get the feeling the fight is starting. We need to figure out our next move.”

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles is driving as fast as he can without drawing attention, so caught up in his own thoughts he almost doesn’t realize his phone is buzzing.  Allison’s name is on the caller ID.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks as he answers, trying to keep his voice casual.

He hears several voices in the background on the other end of the line, and almost hangs up, assuming she didn’t mean to call. 

Then he hears Dean’s voice say, “If their alpha’s been taken, what does that mean for the pack?”

Stiles’ breath catches in his chest. Dean’s voice is too loud and clear for this to be an accidental pocket dial. Does that mean this is Allison’s way of giving him some kind of warning? 

“If their alpha’s gone, the betas will start losing their control,” Chris explains.  “They’ll either be fighting amongst themselves for the open position, which will keep their aggression on the surface, or they’ll start falling to omega power and lack the reserves to keep their wolf side in check.  Either way, they’re a liability now.”

“A liability,” Dean repeats, a darkness in his voice that puts Stiles even more on edge.  “Then we need to get them taken care of before we can do anything else then.  Teenage werewolves running around unchecked could rip the town to shreds.”

_Yeah, definitely a warning._

Stiles slams his foot down on the accelerator, all pretense of caution gone.  The only thing that matters now is getting to the pack before the hunters do and finding a way to keep them in control.  Maybe the hunters don’t intend to kill them; they could have another plan, but there is no way in hell Stiles is going to risk it. This pack is just starting to feel like family; he’d be damned if he was giving any of them up without a fight.

 _We’re not going to let things fall apart.  We’re going to keep our shit together. We’re not going to let the hunters take over this fight. We’re going to protect Jackson, and we’re going to get Derek back._  

Stiles isn’t sure _how_ exactly, but he’ll figure something out.

 

****************************************************************************

 

Ten minutes later, when Stiles barrels down the long dirt drive to the Hale house at record speed and screeches to a halt right by the porch, he’s still trying to figure out exactly what the hell he’s going to do when he gets in there.  He’s out of the Jeep and running for the door before he fully registers what his apparently suicidal subconscious has planned.  He can hear the sound of fighting inside and pauses for just a moment.

_This is such a bad plan, Stilinski. You are so gonna die bloody and painful._

He allows himself enough pause to take one quick breath.  The pack _has_ to stay together. They need to, and someone’s just going to have to talk sense into them.  Right now, he’s only candidate for that job. He bursts through the front door, brings his gun out, and fires a shot above him that thankfully lodges somewhere in the ceiling and doesn’t ricochet and kill him like the idiot he is.

 “Stop it!” he commands, “Now!”

And by some miracle of God, they freeze.  Jackson stands between Scott and Isaac, who are clearly trying to rip each other’s throats out.  They all turn and look at him.  

“Pull yourselves together!” he orders with much more confidence than he feels. “The pack is in danger. They have our Alpha. Hunters are coming to put you down. If we’re going to survive this shit storm, you’re going to calm the fuck down and listen to me.”

Claws and fangs retreat.  Hands drop.  Heads bow.  No eye in the room meets his.  They approach him slowly and stand, unmoving about three feet away from him, keeping their heads down and slightly tilted to the side to expose their jugulars, the way they surrender to Derek in sparring.  They seem to be waiting for Stiles to say more.  

He sucks in a shaky breath.  _Holy God that actually worked!_

“Derek surrendered to the alphas to buy us more time,” Stiles informs them.  “The alpha pack would shred us if we took them on now.  We need time to plan, and Derek bought that.  Now, we’re going to find a way to take them out.  It’s going to take all of us—hunters included, so I need all of you in _total_ control. There will be no more fighting for the position of alpha because we are not losing ours. We’re going to fight for him.”

Stiles looks around the room. It’s in shambles—not that it looked that great before—and it’s clear there’s been a fight. He doesn’t want the hunters to know that.  He’d like them to think the pack  never lost control.

 “Scott, Isaac, get the room back together,” he instructs and they move to do so. 

“Jackson,” Stiles says.  “You were between them, not fighting.  Why?”

“Somebody had to be sane.”

“I want a serious answer.  _Why_?”

“Some of the alphas came to me after school.  They explained what the blue eyes mean.  They said they’d get Derek, and I should take his place as Alpha. They even said if I did they wouldn’t make me kill Lydia on the full moon as the kill-bond.  Then they let me know to come here and take the alpha position.”

“So why didn’t you try for it?”

“The offer to save Lydia just means they know she’s the one person who could get in their way.  If I did this to save her, they’d make me kill her for sure. People like them, hungry for the power, looking for any way to get it.  I know what it’s like to be stuck with them.  I’ve had more than enough of being manipulated into a killer.  I don’t care about the power so much anymore.”

Stiles smiles. “I knew there was a soul in there somewhere, Jackson.”

Jackson rolls his eyes.  “Shut up.”

“You said hunters were coming to put us down?” Scott asks, eyes still glowing gold.

“I don’t know the details. Allison sent up the red flag actually.  I’ll try calling her, but I have a feeling they’ll come anyway. I’m sure they’re on their way now.”

“Breaks the treaty,” Isaac comments.

“True,” Stiles agrees, “which gives us a nice favor to call in when we prove they had no grounds to come here since everything is clearly under control because I’m awesome.” Stiles ignores the huff of skepticism from Jackson. “Also, question:—not that I’m complaining because I am _so_ fucking glad that it worked and I’m not puppy chow—but what exactly happened when I—”

“You’re the second now,” Scott says. 

“So you can tell that?”

All three nod.  “It was like the weird pull to do what Derek tells us to, just not quite as strong.”

“Cool,” Stiles says with a smile.  “Acting alpha, I like that.”

“Even more incentive to get Derek back,” Jackson grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, shut your face. First we’ve got to survive the hunters.”

As expected, none of the hunters answer Stiles’ calls.  He’s about to try Allison for the third time when the werewolves all tense.

“They’re coming,” Isaac says.  “The Winchesters’ car and Argents’ SUV.”

“Stay in the house,” Stiles orders.  “I’ll meet them on the porch.  They’re not likely to go trigger happy on the human.”

The cars pull up and the four hunters exit their vehicles, weapons at the ready.

“Care to explain why you’re breaking the treaty?” Stiles demands.

“Stay out of the way, Stiles,” Chris orders.  “We’re not going to kill them; we’re just going to be sure they don’t hurt anyone. Once they realize Derek’s been taken, they’ll start—”

“Of course they know he’s gone.  Why do you think I’m the one who came out here? I’m the second; it’s my job to represent the Hale pack in Derek’s absence.”

“Derek doesn’t have a second,” Chris argues.

“He does, and I’m it.”

“You’re human,” Dean says.

“I’m pack,” stiles counters.

“You can’t have humans as alphas,” Dean says.

“I’m not an alpha. I’m a second,” Stiles corrects.

“Still not possible.”

“Clearly, you have a revision to make to your bestiary,” Stiles replies. “I’m done being patient with you.  We have our pack in control, and you have no business on Hale territory unless you plan to come in and help us plan our attack, in which case I’ll overlook the fact that you’ve broken the treaty.”

“We want to see the betas,” Chris insists. 

“Then come inside and help us plan, like I said.  Otherwise, be off the property in the next two minutes, or we consider the treaty void.”

He disappears back into the house where Isaac, Scott, and Jackson stand at the base of the stairs.  He walks in and turns toward the library where they can spread out plans on the table.  He stands on the far side of the table, waiting for the hunters to come in.  As soon as the front door creaks open, the betas move toward him. It takes Stiles a moment to process that the three of them move to stand behind him, flanking him the same way they do Derek.  The realization gives him a heady sense of power.  He grins at the look of surprise on the hunters’ faces when they take in the sight of the four teens.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Dean says, as the hunters lower their weapons.  “Good for you, Mowgli.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just as a fun FYI, the bit with Stiles becoming Second was one of the first things I wrote for this work. Also, it was inspired by the song "Lose Your Soul" by Dead Man's Bones which I listened to about a bazillion times while writing/editing this chapter.
> 
> As always, thanks to my alpha of a beta, Dana, and thanks to all of you who've left comments and feedback! I really appreciate it!


	10. Chapter 9

 

Two hours later the pack and the hunters have argued, plotted, doubted, shouted, built up, and torn down what seems like a million ideas.  Everyone’s on edge. No one wants to compromise.  No matter how you look at it, the odds are stacked high against them.

 _Not like that’s anything new_ , Sam thinks to himself.

Chris is gone to get coffee.  Dean mumbled something about getting something from the motel, but Sam’s betting he’s gone for a drink.  Scott and Jackson are picking Lydia up, getting Derek’s car before the sheriff gets home and starts asking questions, and grabbing pizza to bring back.  It’s a much-needed moment to think and recharge, but Sam’s mind is still racing.  He knows his plan could work, but he’s not sure the pack is ready to hear it.  They’re worrying about their alpha, and he understands.  He’s honestly surprised they’re handling it as well as they have.  He’d been afraid they’d be walking in on a blood bath when he saw Stiles’ Jeep outside earlier.  He still can’t believe the werewolves respond as well as they do to a human second.  These kids are holding it together, using the crisis to fortify the pack instead of tearing it apart like the alpha pack had undoubtedly expected.

 _The_ _Hale family business_ , he thinks, and it’s clear Stiles believes in that idea. 

It’s got to be some of his spark-wielder belief that makes Stiles capable of serving as second.  If he can get Stiles to back the plan, they might just have a shot at winning this thing.  Stiles walked out when they called the break a few minutes ago so Sam goes out the front door to look for him.  He doesn’t have to look far.  The teen is sitting cross-legged on the porch, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. 

“We’ll figure out a way to get him back,” Sam says quietly. 

"Yeah, but it’s going to cost us,” Stiles replies grimly. He opens his eyes and looks up at Sam, “You really think we’re all coming out of this in one piece? We don’t have that kind of luck, dude.”

Sam suddenly thinks of Michael, of Dean telling the young boy he’d give anything not to tell him nightmares are real.  Stile shouldn’t be trying to think of ways to keep his friends alive and worrying about which of them are most likely to die in the coming fight.  His biggest worry should be saving money to fix up his Jeep or convincing his dad to let him stay out past curfew or something simple like that.  Something normal.  He’s way too young to be the second for a werewolf pack, but the kid shoulders it well.     

“I know the feeling,” Sam assures him. 

“I’m not trying to sell us short here. I know we can put up one hell of a fight.  I’m just saying these are alphas, and we’re a mongrel pack with a human for a second and a few hunters thrown in just to keep things interesting.”

“Glad to hear your raving confidence in the group.”

Stiles glares back, clearly not in the mood for a pep talk.

Sam can’t stop himself from teasing, “Wow, so does that glare come with being acting alpha?  Is that why Derek does it all the time? Burden of the Hale alpha? Did he give you lessons?”

Stiles cracks a grin in spite of himself.   “Shut up, Sam.”

Sam takes a seat beside Stiles. They sit in silence a few moments before Sam finally says, “So I have an idea, but I want to run it by you before the others.  I doubt your pack will like it. Just hear me out though. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Sure.”

“You’re a mongrel pack; your words not mine, but yeah you’re all bitten except Derek,” Sam says.  “They’re not expecting you to be able to hold your own.  They’re expecting the betas to get in the thick of it and start losing their control, which would put the few hunters at a disadvantage.  They don’t think there’s any way we’re going to trust each other, especially when the fighting starts.  They think the attack will fall apart if the pack leads it.”

“It’s not an entirely implausible situation.”

“I know, so I was thinking,” Sam pauses just a moment, “what if the pack doesn’t lead it?”

“You’re right; I don’t like it. The rest of the pack won’t either.”

“Hey, hear me out,” Sam insists.

“Fine, explain to me why we’d let the hunters lead the attack for our alpha.”

“Because they’d never expect that.  If anything, they’ll assume you’d ditch us to take the fight alone.  If the hunters lead the attack, get the humans in there, we can play to all their weaknesses.  We can do more with the wolfsbane and mountain ash and not have to worry about our side getting the friendly fire.”

“Keep going,” Stiles says.  “Use their weaknesses how? Derek’s still going to be in there.”

“I know, but if we prepare for that.  We can plan for it.”

“What’re you thinking of doing?”

“We can start with the vaporized wolfsbane, weaken them before we even start the fight.  It’ll force them outside the building if they don’t want to keep being poisoned. We’ll be waiting outside with a mountain ash perimeter.  They can’t retreat back into the building.  They’ll have a four foot fighting area, if that.  Even if they’re not all outside, we’ll get several of them.  We can pick off the ones that come out and then fight straight in.

“And Derek? He’ll be stuck inside with the poison.”

“That’s why we don’t just trap them in the building, we’ll have enough wolfsbane to draw them outside to thin them out. It increases our chances of getting in and getting to him.”

“And what? Take him an oxygen tank?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Seriously?”

“Why not? Get it to him and make a line of ash around whatever place in the warehouse where they’re keeping him. Then give him the oxygen tank, and you can wait it out while we fight our way in.  That way it doesn’t matter what shape he’s in when you find him.  He won’t have to fight off alphas to get out.  We’ll come to him.”

“This plan is—it’s—well it’s—”

_Crazy. Genius. Terrible. Risky. Insane._

“It’s out of the box, and it’s the best plan we’ve had so far,” Sam says confidently.  “We can’t win this with numbers or strength.  We’ve got to play it smart.”

“We can’t sneak up on them.  They’ll come out and breach the perimeter of ash before it’s set.”

"It’s about belief, right? The physicality doesn’t matter.  Could you do it out of a car?”

“What?”

“They’d hear us drive up, but they’d assume we were just scoping the place if we just sent a few people and circled the building once.  As long as the one wielding the spark is thinking of the solid, unbroken line, the ash will fall that way.  You think you could do that?”

“Wielding the spark?” Stiles repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s what the books call it. What do you call it?”

“We don’t call it anything. Deaton said it takes a ‘spark of belief’ to make it work, but it’s not anything special.  I’ve only done it once, and it wasn’t some big thing.  I just hoped to God it’d work and we wouldn’t die, and the line worked.”

Sam smiles.  This kid has no idea the potential he has, and Sam wishes they had time now to make Stiles understand.

He settles for saying, “Not everyone can do it.  Don’t sell yourself short.  Just manipulating the power is fairly easy to learn, but it's weak at best.  Those who wield the spark can change the physicality-stretching it when it's not enough or making it fall a certain way-and it's  _definitely_ something special. ”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. I’ve got research on it if you want to see.”

“How’d you know I could do it, anyway?”

“It’s in the file Argent has on you.”

“Really? Does it say it like that? ‘Wields the spark’?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says with a smile that wavers slightly when he adds, “Kinda creepy he’s got a file and knows that much, but mostly awesome.”

“So will you help me pitch the plan?” Sam asks, bringing them back to the issue at hand.

Isaac steps out onto the porch then.  “I think it could work,” he admits.

“Awesome,” Sam says.  “How long have you been listening?”

“Dude, I’m a werewolf; we’ve had this conversation,” Isaac reminds Sam.  “I don’t even have to try.” 

“No secret conversations on Hale territory, hunter man,” Stiles says with a shrug. 

“Should’ve known.”

“Yep.”

“How soon do you think we could do it? Tonight?” Isaac wants to know.

 “Maybe.  We’ve got to get everyone to agree first though.”

 “Honestly, it’s driving me nuts to sit here,” Stiles says.  “This is a workable plan.  I hate letting you guys take point, but it makes a lot of sense.  I think we can make everyone agree on it.  There’s already three of us in favor, and the others are as eager to get something in motion as we are.  If we can get the supplies together, I say the sooner the better.” 

“I think we have pretty much everything we need,” Sam tells them.  “We’ve got the artillery.  I’ve seen Argent’s arsenal.  We should have plenty of wolfsbane and the vaporizers to get it airborne.”

“Oh, we know,” Stiles says darkly, and Sam doesn’t want to know what happened that could put that much fury in Stiles’ eyes.   

“Scott’s mom could get the oxygen tank from the hospital,” Isaac suggests. 

“I’ve got enough mountain ash.”

“We can seriously do this,” Sam says with a grin.  “We’ve just got to hash out the details.”

Sam likes that there’s finally a hopeful smile playing at Isaac’s lips when he says, “Hey, maybe we’re not all gonna die after all.” 

“Not if we can help it,” Sam assures him.

           

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles pulls Isaac, Scott, Jackson, and Lydia aside when the others return.  He explains the plan, and as expected, it takes some convincing to get them to even think about it.  In the end, they can’t deny it’s smart. 

 “You really trust them, Stiles?”

“No, but I trust them enough to give us some manpower for this.  I’ll be the one going in after Derek, so we don’t have to trust him to them.  We’ll make sure to look at the ratios they plan for the airborne wolfsbane. I’ll make sure the concentration leaves enough time for me to get to Derek.”

“I’ll do the calculations myself,” Lydia says.  It’s the first thing she’s said about any of it, and Stiles can’t help beaming at her.  “How much time will you need to find Derek?”

“It’s got to be potent enough to drive them out.  Maybe ten minutes once I’m in?”

“I’ll calculate for fifteen to allow for the time it’ll take the alphas to get out.  Vaporizers will be too slow.  Smokes bombs laced with wolfbane will be more effective. I’ll see what Mr. Argent has for us to work with.”

"You don’t have to do that,” Jackson says firmly.  “We’re not going to make you—”

“These assholes are after you, Jackson.  You think I’m going to wait here for the rest of you to fight and just hope you all actually come back? I’m not just some helpless human, okay?  I’m going with you.”

 Jackson grins and kisses her, and Stiles averts his eyes quickly.  “Yeah, okay, awesome.  So the only thing we really have to trust to the hunters is killing the alphas.”

“I think they can handle that,” Isaac says.  “I’m pretty sure Dean’s been itching to shoot something since they drove into town.”

“One more thing,” Jackson says.  “Where are we during all this?”

“Close enough to hear what’s happening. Far enough to be safe from the wolfsbane.   You can’t come close until we’ve got the perimeter up though.  Once the trap springs, come as close as you want I guess. Try not to get in the thick of it; if we survive the alphas but one of your goes down from a stray bullet or arrow…”

“We’ll be careful,” Isaac assures him.

“Okay, so now we get everyone on the same page,” Stiles says.  “Let’s get back in the house and run over it with the hunters.”

“Yeah, before the pizza gets cold,” Jackson grumbles.

“Dude, you having to eat cold pizza is about this high on my list of problems,” Stiles quips back, holding his hand and inch or two from the ground.  Jackson lets out an annoyed growl.  And honestly, the normalcy of bantering with Jackson should not be such a comfort right now, but it totally is.

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

An hour and a half later, Stile is waiting out by his Jeep for Sam, who’s going to accompany him home to get the mountain ash before they meet up with Chris, Dean, and Lydia at the warehouse. 

“Hey Stiles,” Scott says quietly as he walks up, “you _sure_ you’re okay to—”

“I’ll be fine, Scott. The plan’s going to work.”

 “I know—I just—are you positive you don’t want me to come in with you? You could seal me in the line too. I can back you up.”

“I know you could, but it’s safer with just me.”

They’ve discussed this three times already.  Sealing Scott in the line is too dangerous.  Stiles could at least try to run if something happened.  Scott would be stuck.  Chris pointed out that Stiles’ human scent won’t set off their enemy spidey senses as easily as a werewolf’s would.  If Stiles is being bluntly honest, it’s just better to put only one person at risk instead of two.  The pack needs all the numbers it could get, and they aren’t risking any more lives than necessary.

“Safer for who?”

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles insists again.  He plasters a smile on his face even though he’s so nervous he’s about to throw up.  “Don’t worry, man. You’re making me nervous.”

Scott nods and claps a hand on one shoulder.  “I just prefer you in one piece is all.”

"I know.  Thanks for worrying.”

“Ready?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, let’s do this,” Stiles replies, forcing false bravado into his voice and climbing in the Jeep. 

 


	11. Chapter 10

 

 _God these alphas are so fucking cocky_ Sam thinks to himself as he drives Stiles’ Jeep in a loop around the warehouse where the enemy pack has made its temporary base. 

The alphas don’t even have a lookout.  They’re just banking on hearing or sensing the pack coming.  They probably aren’t even expecting much of a fight. 

 It makes him even more eager to get this thing started and prove they can win.

Stiles holds one hand out the window, eyes closed, face relaxed.  It’s the most still and focused Sam has ever seen the kid.  It’s cool to watch, to see the ashes scatter in the wind from the teen’s hand but look in the rearview and see how they’ve landed in a nice, neat line.  He still can’t believe this is only the fourth or fifth time the kid’s tried to wield the spark.  When Stiles finally realizes how much he can do, he’s going to be a real force to be reckoned with.  Sam wishes for the millionth time that there had been time to explore that asset in Stiles before the attack,

They complete the line and park the Jeep.  Sam calls Dean who’s waiting along with Chris and Lydia several blocks away. Lydia’s work on the best way to deliver a fairly precise amount of wolfsbane via smoke bomb had been impressive.  Clearly she wasn’t remotely as vapid as she might like the world to think. Sam hoped she grew out of hiding her intelligence; Dean was the same way, and it bugged him.  Being smart and being cool weren’t mutually exclusive.

He glanced over at Stiles, who has a slightly disengaged look on his face, and Sam figures he’s running through the plan in his head for the millionth time.  They all are.  He’s mindlessly turning over the small bottle of mountain ash he’ll take inside the line with him. Sam wishes he could do that part of the plan himself.  It’s no secret to anyone who’s at the most risk tonight.  They’ve devised a plan that just might keep everyone on their side alive, but if anything goes wrong, Stiles will be the one paying the price.

“Show time,” Stiles says as the SUV comes into sight. 

Not long after that, Sam loses himself to battle mode. He finds a rhythm in throwing the smoke bombs in the initial onslaught before leaving Chris and Lydia to continue the barrage. He pairs unconsciously with his brother, letting Dean’s arrows slow the alphas fleeing the building so that Sam can catch them in the heart with the wolfsbane bullets.  The plan is working, and Sam can’t keep the smile off his face.

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Two dead,” Allison says, returning from circling the building.  “Sam and Dean are working on three, four, and five now.”

“There’s at least two inside then,” Chris said.  “We need more wolfsbane in there to flush the rest out so Stiles can get in.  Allison, you grab a few and go around the left. I’ll take the right.”

Stiles turns to Lydia as the hunters move out of earshot.

“They’re using them faster than you calculated. How much longer has Derek got before he’s in real trouble?”

“Ten minutes,” Lydia replied. “Less if he’s hurt, but there’s still two of them in there, Stiles.”

“I’m not leaving him in there to suffocate.  I’m armed; they’re weakened.  Maybe they’ll leave out another exit when I’m going in.”

“They’re not going to let you risk it.”

“They’re busy; I’m going now.”

Lydia wants to stop him. Stiles can see it in her face. The thing is, Stiles wanted to stop Lydia three weeks ago when she was determined to get to Jackson.  Instead, he drove his Jeep through the wall of this very warehouse because Lydia asked him to.  Now he’s the one asking because Derek who doesn't trust anyone walked away with the alphas trusting his pack would come for him. Stiles will never be able to live with himself if he doesn't do everything he can to save him. She nods once.

“Be careful.”

Stiles doesn’t reply, just takes six quick steps and crosses over the line.  He hopes none of the hunters notice him going, but he doesn't look back to check.  He’s moving now, and there’s no stopping or he’ll never get going again.  Now isn’t the time to second guess anything.  He’s got the tank in one hand and his gun in the other, as he makes his way through the hazy warehouse, trying not to cough and call attention to himself.  He hears a door bang in the distance and hopes it means there’s only one alpha left in here with him. 

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Derek’s lungs burn with the first breath he draws after the bombs come in.  He knows in that moment that the hunters are the ones coming, willing to sacrifice Derek in order to take out the pack of alphas. They probably assume he’s already joined their ranks.  Disappointment hits him like a punch in the gut when he realizes his pack must _really_ be decimated if they let the hunters come lead this attack.  If they’ve completely lost control—killed or maimed one another or anyone else in the confusion after his leaving—he hopes the wolfsbane kills him before he has to hear the hunters remind him that he’s the one responsible for what’s happened to the teens.

Most of the alphas leave to go and remove the threat.  Two remain with Derek, although the whines that escape them and the howls of pain from outside tell him the hunters are giving a good fight to those who’ve gone out, and these two want to go help.  All three of them are struggling to stop the shift at beta form with the presence of this much wolfsbane; the air is thick with it. The two alphas with him, Sarah and Lane, are starting to panic.

“We can’t stay here much longer,” Sarah says.

“He’ll run if we unchain him. He’ll die if we leave him here.”

“They’re coming for him.  If we run, they’ll save him.  We’ll get him back before the next full moon.”

“It’s risky.”

“I’m not staying here to suffocate.  The others need us. They’re losing, can’t you hear?”

With that, Sarah shifts into full alpha form and bounds off.  Lane looks at Derek once more before doing the same.  As he struggles against his bonds, Derek’s so focused on trying to suck in enough air to stay conscious that it takes him longer than it should to realize that there’s a human heartbeat getting closer.  He’s wondering which hunter would risk coming for him when he realizes this heartbeat sounds kind of familiar. 

Just as Stiles comes into view, Derek hears the growls and whimpers of the alphas from another part of the warehouse.  Two are coming back in, communicating in alpha form to Sarah and Lane that it’s a trap.  There’s a sudden change in their growls as they pick up on Stiles heartbeat, and Derek knows they’re coming.

“Stiles, run!”

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

He doesn’t really understand why Derek’s shouting at him because he started running the minute he caught sight of Derek on the other side of the room, straining against chains that are a hell of a lot more impressive than handcuffs on a radiator.  The first he knows of the alpha that attacks is the blinding pain that shoots down his back.  It’s a testament to their training that he doesn’t think, just has his gun turned and shooting under his left arm, bullet hitting the alpha before its claws have even left him. 

The problem of course is that a gut wound from a wolfsbane bullet isn’t a kill shot.  As Stiles tries to run, the injured wolf lashes out, claws decimating his left leg.  The scream of pain that escapes him isn’t entirely human, but he must be careening into shock because the pain only lasts a few moments.  He empties four more bullets into the creature as he manages to pull himself away. 

Three more alphas are moving toward him now, growling fiercely; he fires twice more and they back off. It’s just long enough for him to drop the air tank and get a handful of the mountain ash he has in his pocket.  He essentially just tosses it into the air, but he closes his eyes and uses every ounce of hope he has to will it into a protective line across the room.  He’s surprised when he can _feel_ that it worked. The alphas on the other side of the line howl in frustration. 

“Oh good,” Stiles says as he picks the oxygen tank up and limps toward Derek.  “You’re not dead.”

“Stiles, you idiot.  What are you doing here?”

“It’s really a good plan.  I swear.  I’ll explain it all later,” he promises absentmindedly as he secures the oxygen mask over Derek’s mouth and nose. 

After several grateful gulps of air, Derek is yelling things at him, but he tunes the alpha out.  Learning to ignore Derek’s yelling is a critical skill he’s learned as part of the Hale Pack.  It’s made easier by the fact that the plastic muffles his words.

“Shut up; I’m busy,” Stiles tells him.

He reaches in his pocket for the lock pick Sam lent him and starts to work on Derek’s restraints.

“Jeez, Sourwolf,” Stiles comments as Derek’s shouts increase in volume. “You know I’m saving your ass right? Would it kill you to be nice?”

“Stiles…” and this time his voice is different—the anger is gone, replaced with an earnest, pleading tone, he doesn’t like.  He can’t tune this voice out.

“What?”

 “Stiles you need to call for help.”

“I _am_ helping, idiot. I got this. The others’ll be here soon.  This is the plan.”

“Not help for me. Help for _you._  You’re leg—”

“It’s okay; it doesn’t hurt that bad.  I just need some stitches probably.”

 He fights the urge to look down at his leg because he knows once he sees it the pain will probably get worse.  He’d much rather ignore it, in suit with his usual coping plan, it until help arrives.  The chain clicks as one cuff unlocks.  Stiles smiles at Derek triumphantly. 

“See. I totally got this.”

His smile wavers as Derek’s face slides out of focus and then back in again.  The ground seems to be tilting just a little bit and he stumbles sideways into the wall.  He slides himself slowly down it, suddenly feeling as tired as if he’d run a marathon.

“Stiles!”

“I just—just need a minute.  I’m okay.”

The world continues to come in and out of focus, and it seems like time is jumping because one second Derek has just one hand free, and then suddenly he’s out of the chains, and then he’s hitting Stiles in the face. 

“Ow!” Stiles complains.

“You have to break it. Understand? Break the line, Stiles. Right now.  I can’t.”

Even with his blurring vision, Stiles can see the three wolves pacing on the other side of the line.  Stiles realizes that he’s now got the oxygen mask on his face.

“Not yet,” he says though the plastic.

“I’ll worry about them.  You need a hospital.”

“There’s a plan.”

“Stiles, break it!”

“They’ll get in. They’ll kill you. Both of us.”

“No, they won’t. They’re too weak.  I can fight them.”

Derek’s point isn’t helped when he starts coughing just after the words leave his lips.  Stiles extends a shaky hand to give Derek the oxygen mask.  Derek takes two long breaths and gives it back to Stiles.

 “If you stay in here, you’re going to bleed to death.”

“I’m okay,” he assures Derek, even though he’s pretty sure it’s a lie. “We have to wait for them to come.  Otherwise even if the alphas don’t get you, the hunters’ll hit you with friendly fire.

“Look at your fucking leg.  You _have_ to break the line.”

Stiles looks down and immediately regrets it.  There’s some definite gushing of blood going on. The blood makes it hard to see everything, which he’s kind of grateful for.  The cuts are deep, maybe to the bone.  His stomach twists unpleasantly. _I am so_ _fucked._

“You’re not going out there.  The pack needs an alpha.”

“The pack needs a Stiles too; now _break the damn line_.”

Derek grabs Stiles hand to force it through the line of ash on the floor.  The barrier doesn’t break though because Stiles doesn’t want it to.  Derek growls at him.

“Stiles, please.”

“No. ”

Derek strips off his shirt.  “If you weren’t dying, I’d kill you for this,” he informs Stiles tersely as he presses the shirt against the gushing wound.  It hurts like hell, and he tries to move away from the pressure, but Derek won’t let him.  “Take off your belt; you need a tourniquet.”

Stiles starts losing time again.  He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but he opens them again when Derek is yelling, “Somebody break this goddamn line! NOW!” 

“Stiles, look at me,” Sam’s voice commands.  “We’re here. You’re both safe.  Let the line break. It’s okay.”

He nods and closes his eyes to focus.  He hopes it works because he can’t persuade his eyes to open up again for more than a second or two at a time and check for himself.  There’s a lot more shouting an voice and then someone is carrying him.  Every step jars his whole body, and he thinks maybe the whimpers of pain he’s hearing are coming from him.

“We’re in, Argent! Go!” Derek orders, and Stiles realizes they’re probably in a car now. 

“Don’t die, Stiles,” Scott’s voice urges.  “Please don’t die.”

Stiles wants to reply, but he can’t seem to get any words out.   The voices around him are still talking, but he can’t seem to make out any words anymore.  All the sounds are getting farther and farther away.  A weird sense of weightlessness comes over him; he feels like he’s floating—or is he sinking? He’s suddenly overwhelmed with an underwater kind of feeling.  The darkness is smothering him, but he can’t open his eyes.  The voices are still getting farther away.  Is this what dying feels like?

_Is this what mom felt like?_

“I want my dad,” he mumbles, and the effort of forcing out those four words is enough to send him over the edge into nothingness.

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles lies unconscious in the back of Chris Argent’s SUV as they speed toward the hospital.  Scott calls his mom, tells her Stiles has been attacked, tells her to be ready.  He hangs up and immediately starts calling someone else. 

“Sheriff, you need to get to the hospital as soon as you can.  Stiles is hurt. We’re bringing him there now.”

“Scott, what—”

“I can’t explain it all now.  One of the alphas attacked him.”

“Oh, God.” And the man sounds wrecked.

_Of course he does, you idiot.  It’s his kid, and this is probably the call he’s been dreading ever since he found out the truth._

“I’m on my way,” the sheriff tells Scott.  “Is he conscious, can I talk to him?”

“He’s not—he isn’t—he can’t talk.”

“Scott, how bad is he?” Scott opens and closes his mouth several times, but can’t seem to answer.  “How bad?!” the Sherriff demands. 

“Bad enough, but Stiles is strong, right? He’ll be okay.  We’re getting him to the hospital. We’re just a few minutes away now.”

“I’ll see you there.”

Derek hears the sirens start up on the other end of the phone as Scott hangs up. 

“Come on, Stiles,” Scott urges.  “Hang in there.”

They’re moving as soon as they screech to a halt in front of the ER.  Melissa McCall is waiting outside with two paramedics who quickly get Stiles onto a gurney and rush him inside. Derek and Scott try to follow, but the nurses hold them back.  With the residual wolfsbane in his system and the stress of the moment, it’s only by the grace of God that Derek doesn’t shift right there and take someone’s arm off as they push him in the direction of the waiting room.  He hones in on Stiles ever-weakening pulse as the team taking him down the hall disappears from sight.

“Is any of this blood yours?” a nurse asks.

“No, we’re fine.  We just need to—he’s our friend,” Scott pleads.  “We have to know what’s going on. Is he going to be okay?”

Chris Argent steps in between the nurse and the two werewolves, urging them toward the waiting area.  They move grudgingly in the direction Chris nudges, and the nurse hurries to meet the Sheriff who’s just come sprinting through the door.  Just as Derek takes a seat next to Scott, Stiles’ heartbeat ceases.

He feels his control evaporate just as a needle enters his neck.  Argent’s face swims above him as his head lolls back.

“Sorry, Derek,” he says quietly.  “It’s for your own good.”

And then the darkness closes in.

           

 


	12. Chapter 11

As soon as he regains any sort of consciousness, Derek immediately shifts into beta form, his mind still racing with panic.  He takes in the situation quickly as he regains his feet: His bedroom. His apartment. His beta standing calmly by the door as Derek gets his bearings.

“Argent drugged you,” Isaac says.  “He said you were losing control.”

The hunter had been right. Derek had been seconds away from shifting right in the middle of the ER because—

“Stiles?” he asks, not sure he wants to hear the answer.

“He’s gonna be okay.”  Derek almost physically sags with relief and slowly resumes his human form.  “The slashes down his back didn’t go deep enough to hit anything vital. His leg’s going to take a lot of rehab; he might limp.  He’s alive though.”

Derek nods. It’s obvious from Isaac’s face that there’s more to be said and it’s not good.

“What’s the bad news then?”

“His leg—it was slashed to the bone in a couple places.  The hunters say it’ll turn him.”

“Is he showing any signs?”

“It’s only been a couple hours. Scott says nothing obvious so far, but that Stiles smells different.  The hunters won’t leave the hospital.”

Derek’s eyes glow red.  “He’s our pack.  If he turns, we’ll keep him in check.”

“We tried to tell them, but they’re still there. We can’t make them leave without getting kicked out.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“They told the sheriff he’s turning,” Isaac says; there’s a quiet fury in his voice that Derek agrees with.  The sheriff might not be direct pack, but he’s pack by association and the impulse to protect him is now hardwired in.  It’s bad enough that he’s been fearing for his son’s life for the past hours, but to have a hunter inserting himself into pack business at a moment of crisis—to have him talking about his betas, making the situation worse when Derek isn’t there to stop him—makes Derek’s blood boil.

“Which one told the Sheriff?” though he’s fairly certain he can guess the answer.

“He didn’t tell the sheriff exactly.  Dean just started making offhanded comments about Stiles being on his feet again in no time once the turn finished.  He kept running off at the mouth about how we knew this is what would happen, that Stiles didn’t want the bite so we pretended to give him a choice when we were really just waiting for him to get turned in a fight. The sheriff was sitting _right there,_ hearing every word with this God-awful look on his face.  Sam kept telling him he was being an ass, but it didn’t shut him up quick enough.  Jackson started wolfing out and I had to take him out and—”

An involuntary growl escapes Derek.  As far as he’s concerned, the only redeeming quality about Dean Winchester is his brother.  He wishes he’d been there to hear it himself and have the satisfaction of slamming the hunter through a wall immediately after. He takes a deep breath to calm down and stave off another shift. 

His  control is never this shaky; there must still be a little wolfsbane in his system. He’d never admit it, but maybe it’s a good thing Argent had that tranquilizer.

“Come on,” he says to Isaac, pushing past the beta out to the living room.  “The alphas are dead; let’s remind the Winchesters that their business with this pack is done.”

Isaac grins his agreement and falls into step behind Derek.  

 

 *****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

           

“Jackson says there’s no way you’ll let Stiles stay the second,” Isaac says, and Derek raises and eyebrow.  “Because he’s Stiles and he’s human and he’s--he’s kind of—well, he’s Stiles,” Isaac adds like those last three words explain the whole argument.

“What do you think?” Derek wants to know.

“I think he barreled into a room of fighting werewolves and pulled us together before the hunters could get to us,” Isaac says, “and maybe he talks too much, but he says what he thinks and he’s usually got a point when it matters.”

Derek nods.  “He’s good for the pack.”

Isaac smiles.   “Yeah, he is.”

"You’d want him to stay as the second?”

“Sure. I think he’s earned it.”

“Me too.”

They ride the rest of the way to the hospital in silence.  Stiles still isn’t awake.  Scott’s still there, Argent sits quietly in a corner of the waiting room, but the Winchesters are gone.  Derek has half a mind to head for their motel; the treaty technically no longer stands.  He can’t justify the challenge though.  The pack is a man down, and they don’t need anything more on their plates.  He’ll just have to make sure the sheriff understands that was never the plan.

_Look at you taking the rational route. See, little bro.  You’re getting the hang of this alpha thing._

Derek and Isaac sneak into the ICU while Scott distracts the nurse on duty.  Stiles looks pale against the white sheets of the hospital bed.  He smells like antiseptic and pain medication and just a little like the alpha that attacked him; Derek hates it.  The Sheriff sits in a chair by the bed; he looks completely exhausted.

“Hey, boys,” he says tiredly.

“How is he?” Derek asks.

“Alive. That’s the main thing.”

“Sheriff, I’m sorry,” Derek says earnestly.  “He’s my responsibility. I should have—”

“No, he’s  _my_ responsibility,” the sheriff replies with a heavy sigh, “and apparently, neither of us can stop him from throwing himself in the line of fire. This wasn’t your fault.”

Derek swallows hard.  He was prepared for the Sheriff’s anger, not his understanding.  It’s nice, but it catches Derek completely off guard.

“Scott explained most of what happened—at least the part where you were taken and then they planned the attack.  He told me that you tried to get Stiles to help, but he’d put down a line of the mountain ash and you couldn’t break it.  I know you did all you could—the whole pack did,” he adds with a glance over to Isaac.  “And the doctors said that tourniquet made all the difference—if you hadn’t, then he would’ve lost to much blood and—thank you.”

And Derek’s _really_ not prepared to be thanked.  Any of the others would have gotten a tourniquet on Stiles too.  Derek’s the whole reason Stiles was in that warehouse to begin with.  He’s the alpha who couldn’t protect the pack.  He left a sixteen-year-old kid to deal with the aftermath of his leaving, and he deserves to be blamed. 

“He’s pack,” Derek says simply, in lieu of a full explanation because he can’t begin to explain that, if Stiles had died saving him, if Derek added another name to the list of the dead he leaves in his wake, it would shatter him.  That fear is what drove his actions—what drives all his actions these days—the desperate need to never again feel the guilt of someone else’s blood on his hands.  There’s already too much to ever wash off.

The sheriff nods and turns back to look at his son with worried eyes.

“I know what Winchester said,” Derek tells him. “We don’t see the fact that he’s human as a weakness.  We’d never plan to put him in danger to try and have him turned.  You need to know that.”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“Son, I’ve already told you I’m not blaming you for what happened,” the sheriff says.  “I’ve been Sheriff long enough to know that you  can  plan as much as you want, and you can try to be responsible for everyone who works with you, but at the end of the day, sometimes there’s things you could never see coming.  Sometimes things just go to hell and you have to do the best you can to just get everyone out of the situation alive.  I know it’s hard to look their families in the face and admit you couldn’t keep them safe,” he tells Derek.  “Those deputies who died when Matt came to the police station—there’s no way I could have known what was coming, but I still feel like I should have stopped it somehow.  You feel responsible for what happens to them, regardless of how much control you actually had over the situation. I don’t think you’re old enough to have that kind of weight on your shoulders, but you seem to handle it well.”

He smiles weakly, and Derek tries to return it.  “Thanks,” he says quietly.

“I will say this though,” the sheriff says, eyes hardening as he fixes Derek with a steady gaze.  “If you, or anyone else in the pack,” he looks over the Isaac as well, “ _ever_ find out that my son is going through with some monumentally dangerous plan without telling me, you’d better get me in the loop.  I accept that he’s chosen to be pack, but there is no way in hell I’m just going to let him take these things on while I stand by.  I don’t give a damn what he tells you about protecting me; if he isn’t going to tell me, you’d better.  I don’t appreciate being blindsided by the call I got from Scott when you’d all known for _hours_ that the fight was imminent.  You  _will_ keep me updated or so help me I will tap phones, track GPS, or do whatever else it takes to assess the danger myself.   I will not be sidelined while my son makes life-or-death decisions.  Do I make myself  _abundantly_  clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek says with a nod.  The alpha in him would like to argue, but the man has a point and has been through enough. 

“Good.”

There a few moments of silence between them. All their gazes shift to Stiles.  Derek can’t help imagine what would happen if Stiles woke right now.

_What? Is everyone taking creeper lessons now? Stop staring at me like a bunch of freaks. Anybody else want fries?_

But  Stiles doesn’t wake.  Derek knows he will soon enough, once the sedation wears off.  Even with all the times he’s wanted to duct tape Stiles mouth shut to stop the constant chatter, Derek wishes Stiles was talking now. Right now, he’d sit and listen to it gladly because, until Stiles is fully awake and annoying enough that Derek wants to strangle him, Derek isn’t going to be able to completely believe Stiles is all right.

“We have Stiles’ Jeep,” Derek tells the sheriff. “Isaac drove it from the warehouse.  He’s taking me to get my car, and we’ll leave the Jeep at your house.”

“Anything we can bring you?” Isaac asks.

“A change of clothes for both of us would be nice,” the sheriff says.  “Just look through the clothes baskets in the laundry room.  There’s a house key on Stiles’ key ring.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Thanks, boys.”

“Scott’s going to stay out in the waiting area until I get back,” Derek tells him.  “Just in case anything happens.”

“Scott said he wasn’t going to turn.”

“I don’t think so, no,” Derek confirms, “but wounds this deep from a werewolf often have side effects.”

“Like what?”

“It could be as simple as some hallucinations.

  “And if it’s not simple?”

“I honestly don’t know.” The sheriff sighs, nods, and runs a hand down his face.  “Someone from the pack will be here at all times until we’re sure what change is happening. Melissa’s going to keep an eye on the medical side in case anything abnormal comes up in any of his blood work or scans.”

“So nothing to do but wait?”

“Pretty much.”

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 Derek rises to his feet the moment Sam steps into the waiting room.  If looks could kill, Sam would be dead on the floor, no question.  He heads toward the alpha anyway.

“I just need to talk to you for a second,” Sam says, “How is he?”

“He’s not turning.”

 “I believe you.  I just mean generally. Is he awake?”

“No.”

“Anything I can do?” Derek just glowers at him.  “Look, I’m aware that my brother can be an ass, but it’s not—he didn’t—he’s worried about the kid, okay? And when he worries he gets pissed at everything.”

“And that’s an excuse for coming here and—”

“I’m trying to tell you he’s not a total ass, okay? The kids were all growing on him, which is easier said than done, and by the end it was less about killing alphas and more about saving y’all to him. He’s said from the beginning that it was too dangerous for a human to run with a pack.  It’s easier for him to put the blame on you and your pack and say you wanted him turned than it is to admit one of us should’ve stopped Stiles from going in there with that many alphas left, and we didn’t.  I feel guilty as hell because it was my damn plan that put him in there on his own in the first place; as soon as I started apologizing for it, Dean started pointing fingers at everybody but me.  It’s what he does.”  Sam shrugs.  “He’s my big brother, ya know?”

Dean would murder him for spouting this sentimental excuse to a stranger, but he wants to leave Beacon Hills with at least a little bit of peace between the two sides.  Apparently the explanation has the desired effect because something in Derek’s gaze softens ever so slightly. 

“Yeah,” the alpha says simply, and Sam can’t help but remember that Derek used to be somebody’s little brother too.

“Do they think he’ll be awake soon?” Derek says nothing, just goes back to glowering at Sam. “Even if he was, you wouldn’t let me in there.” he supposes. 

“The treaty’s done. The threat’s gone. You don’t have any more business with my pack.”

Sam wants to push it; he wants to demand to talk to Stiles before he leaves, but what’s the points really? He and Dean will leave tomorrow.  They can’t keep too close contact with the pack, or it’ll lead other hunters here.  Derek doesn’t seem interested in extending or expanding the treaty.  Dean’s inability to play nice is sure to get someone mauled or shot eventually. 

 “I made some copies of my research I think he’d find interesting,” Sam says finally.  “Will you give them to him?”

“What kind of research?”

“About people who can wield the spark,” Sam replies. “He should know what it means for him.  What he can do if he practices enough.  He has no idea what his potential is.”  Sam digs through his bag for the file folder.  “You know don’t you? How rare it is? You know the kinds of things he can do with enough practice?”

Derek nods. “I know.”

“Good, because he definitely doesn’t understand it yet, and it shouldn’t be wasted,” Sam tells Derek as he holds out the packet of information.  “It’ll probably end up saving his life.”

“Unless a hunter comes for him,” Derek replies darkly.  “You people don’t particularly care for magic, even from humans.”

“Hunters are going to come for him regardless,” Sam replies. “He’s in a wolf pack.  He’s something not entirely human any more.  The spark is the best defense he’s got.”

Derek doesn’t disagree.  Sam gets the feeling Derek’s going to be interested in this research too.  He’s sure the alpha’s knowledge of the supernatural is good enough, but any education he would have gotten firsthand from his family stopped at sixteen.  He thinks of how much harder it is for him and Dean to figure things out without Dad to ask questions of.  At least they’ve got Bobby and Ellen.  Derek’s got no one.  Sam thinks he might just email Bobby’s contact information to Stiles later.

“I know you’ve got Argent, but if you get trouble from any other packs—”

"We can take care of ourselves.”

Sam nods. “If hunters come around, we can help with that too.  Our name kind of goes a long way.”

Derek doesn’t reply, so Sam takes the high ground. 

“Thanks for your help—tell the rest of the pack too.”

He turns to leave, and, for a minute he thinks Derek still isn’t going to say anything.

Then, “The Hale name goes a long way, too, if you run into another pack,” Derek says, his jaw is clenched and it looks like it almost pains him to make the offer.  Sam turns.  “We appreciate what you did.”

Sam smiles. “We were happy to help,” he says before turning his back again and heading out the big glass doors.    

He’s still smiling as he drives back to the motel to help Dean pack their things.  The treaty had held. The plan had worked. No one was dead.  They were leaving with the communications generally open.  He was calling it a win on all fronts.

These were the cases that kept him sane—the rare ones that left him with a spark of hope that there really was a shot in hell that good was going to come out on top in the grand scheme of things, the ones that made him feel like he could fight whatever dark destiny Yellow Eyes has planned for him.

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************

            

When Stiles opens his eyes, he closes them again immediately.  Everything’s far too bright and the quiet darkness from before doesn’t seem like such a bad place anymore. 

“Stiles?” his dad’s voice says.

He tries opening his them again, more slowly this time, and blinks rapidly until his eyes finally adjust.  His dad is looking down at him, and Stiles thinks guiltily that his dad looks older.  He can feel the fog of the pain medicine and knows his leg must be in pretty bad shape.  His whole body feels too heavy, and he wants to go back to sleep. 

“Hey, kiddo,” his dad says with a tight smile. 

“Hey, dad,” he replies, throat dry and scratchy.  “The alphas—did we—”

“The pack is safe,” his father assures him.   

“Good.”

“You scared the shit outa me, son.  Don’t you ever do anything that stupid again. I thought you were—I almost lost—Stiles, your heart stopped. _Twice._ ”

“I’m sorry, dad.”

“I know they’re your friends, but you can’t take risks like—”

“Can we please not talk about this now?”

His dad opens his mouth to protest, gives Stiles a once over, and seems to agree that the lecture can wait. 

“How do you feel?” his dad asks.

“Awesome.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m fine, dad.  My leg just hurts.”

Scott appears through the door then, a hesitant grin on his face.  “You’re up.”

“Creeper werewolf hearing,” Stiles teases.  “It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know.”

“I can help with your leg,” Scott offers. 

“What?”

“Werewolf superpowers,” Scott replies, smiling fully.  “Watch.”

He puts his hand gingerly on Stiles injured leg.  Black tendrils appear up Scott’s arm, his veins popping.  Stiles stares, mesmerized, and he can feel the pain receding.

“That’s so cool! Dude, why didn’t you tell me you could—” he looks up at Scott with a grin that falls as soon as he sees the grimace of pain on his friend’s face.  “Scott, stop. That’s enough. It’s good. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Sorry,” Scott says pulling his hand away.  “It’s not that bad with the dogs at the clinic.  Just give me a minute, and I can take a little more.”

“It’s really okay. That’s enough,” Stiles insists.  “They’ve got me on plenty of pain meds.”

Scott looks at him with guilty eyes and seriously that puppy dog look is going to be the death of him.  “I should’ve come with you.”

“I’m the one who told you not to,” Stiles reminded him.  “I’ll be fine, Scott.  The pack will just have to be patient while I heal the old fashioned way.”

“Maybe a little quicker,” Scott says.  “Mom says you’ve got some accelerated healing mojo going on.”

“What?!”

“You’re not turned,” Scott assures him.  “Just—something because the wounds were so deep? I don’t know. You’d have to ask Derek.”

“Is he okay? Where is he? Deaton’s?”

“He’s fine. He’s out in the waiting room.  He’s going to want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, not looking forward to that conversation.  He’s totally going to kill me, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” Scott agrees with a smile.  His face turns more serious, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that scared, man.  You should’ve broken the line.”

Stiles shrugs. “I wasn’t sending him out there to take on three alphas and the hunters.   Besides, I’m fine now.”

Scott shakes his head.  “You’re insane, Stiles.  Next training session I’m telling Derek to focus in on self-preservation.”

“I like the sound of that,” the sheriff agrees.

Stiles rolls his eyes at the both of them before he maneuvers the conversation to less gloomy topics by making an excellent case as to why curly fries are essential to his healing process. 

 

 ****************************************************************************

 

Derek waits for the nurses to head back to their stations before ducking quickly into Stiles room.  The Sheriff is conveniently gone to take a call, though Derek suspects he’s still on enough of a my-son-is-alive high to let Stiles get away with murder right now; cheating on his revolting hospital food diet is nothing.

“Curly fries?” Stiles exclaims, far more excited than anyone has a right to be over fried bits of potato.

“Well, you wouldn’t stop whining about them. I could hear you all the way in the waiting room.”

“I wasn’t _whining_ ,” Stiles argues.  “I was just saying that hospital food leaves a lot to be desired. I mean, what kind of reward is disgusting lemon jello for the display of badassery I put on last night?”

“I already bought the fries,” Derek says putting the bag on the table by Stiles’ bed.  “You don’t have to convince me.  Just shut up and eat them.”

 Stiles digs into the bag like he’s a starving man.  He pauses after a couple of seconds and looks at Derek.  Derek raises an eyebrow, unsure what the problem is.

“This is totally a trap, isn’t it?”

“A trap?”

"You’re luring me into a false sense of security. There’s no way you’re skipping over the lecture and just being nice and bringing me fries.”

 _I really thought you were going to die, you little shit,_ Derek thinks, but he doesn’t say anything aloud.  

“Seriously? You’re really skipping the lecture and giving me fries?” Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs. “Do you _want_ a lecture?”

“You were totally worried about me,” Stiles says with a grin.   “Weren’t you?”

“You were bleeding out on a warehouse floor,” Derek replies. “Kneejerk reaction.”

“This is totally a you-saved-my-ass-and-almost-died thank you present.”

“It’s a for-the-love-of-god-just-stop-bitching-about-curly-fries present,” Derek counters. 

“Right.”

There’s a beat or two of silence as Stiles continues eating. Derek’s waiting for the teen to get around to voicing whatever questions he’s got.  He knows there must be several, and it looks as though Stiles is trying to decide which ones get priority.

“So I’m not a werewolf,” Stiles says finally.

“No.”

“But something happened.  I’m different; I can feel it even with the drugs, and you’re worried about whatever’s going on. Otherwise you wouldn’t be camped out in the waiting area. So what exactly is happening to me?”

“You probably would have turned,” Derek begins, “but losing so much blood, getting the transfusions, and probably some of the power of your Spark kept the turn at bay.  It didn’t stop all of it though, so you’re going to maybe have some wolfish behaviors now.  There’s no way to know how much so I’m staying around as a precaution.”

Stiles nods. He seems to be processing, taking the information well. 

“Could I do like the claws and fangs and—”

“I doubt it.  I’d say the worst you’ll get is blackout aggressive with extra power behind you.”

“So I could hurt someone.”

“It’s a  possibility.”

“Any time? Or just the full moon?”

“Hopefully just the full moon.”

“I don’t care what my dad threatens you with; I’m not letting him near me on the full moon.  You’re just going to have to play yoda and keep me in check—Scott’ll probably help too I guess.”

Derek nods agreement.  Stiles mind has clearly shifted to the next question, he pauses for just a minute.

“What else?” Derek prompts.

“So, um—how pissed are you that I’m the second?” Stiles asks.

“Pissed?’ Derek repeats.

“Yeah, like give me a scale of one to ten or something, because really, dude, I didn’t even know if it would work and I kind of just expected—”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Okay, so definitely pissed then.  Look, I know I—”

“I said shut up.  Give me two seconds to talk, would you?”

Because Derek Hale doesn’t gush out feelings of pride or talk about how much it means to him that Stiles stepped up to protect the pack or admit when he’s insanely indebted to a sixteen-year-old smartass.

But apparently, he’s about to make an exception. 

Because Stiles is sitting in a hospital bed with that damned kicked puppy resigned look on his face.  The one he has when he’s going to argue with Derek but doesn’t think he’ll actually win.  God help him, Derek Hale is about to sound like a fucking chick flick or Hallmark card or some shit, but it can’t be avoided. 

 _Maybe the pack doesn’t need tough alpha street cred_ Laura’s voice reminds him in his own words. 

Derek sighs because she’s right—or he’s right—whatever…

“Stiles,” he begins, still trying to figure out how to say all this concisely.  “You’re the only reason the pack survived this.”

“Dude, no I’m not,” Stiles replies, laughing off the compliment.

“Don’t laugh,” Derek orders. “I’m serious.”

Stiles looks confused. “You’re not pissed you’ve got Mowgli for a Second?”

“When the first smoke bombs came in, I thought it meant for sure the pack was falling apart. I thought the hunters had taken over the job, and they figured it was worth the risk of killing me if they got the alphas.  I almost didn’t mind going out like that because I figured even if I survived there was no pack for me to come back to anyway,” the words tumble out, and he just plows on with his emotional word-vomit, looking out the window instead of at Stiles.  “Then you came around that corner and I realized—I realized the pack wasn’t gone—because the power from being second and the strength of the pack was practically it was radiating off you, and no I was not pissed that it was you.  I was damn glad.”

“Yeah, but at the time I was saving your ass from imminent death.  Now that the excitement’s over and there are other options on the table—”

“Stiles, you did most of the research to put the patterns together.  You figured out what the alphas were after.  When I had to go with them, you held the pack together.  You kept up the treaty with the hunters. You put yourself into the most dangerous role of the whole plan.  You sat bleeding to death on the floor of a warehouse because you were convinced the pack having an alpha was more important that you surviving the attack. All you’ve done since day one of your ‘free trial’ is think about the good of the pack, and you think you don’t deserve to be the second?”

He looks back to Stiles then.  Stiles is staring at him, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing—completely speechless.

 _For once_ Derek thinks.

“You—but you—you and me—all our conversations are arguments—at least most of them.  We speak in insults and death threats.  We’re the worst possible alpha/second duo in the history of ever.”

“You don’t want to be the second?”

“I didn’t say that—I just—seriously? You’re going to let me be second?”

“I’m not _letting_ you do anything,” Derek replies. “You claimed the position for yourself, and the pack is supporting it.”

“The whole pack?”

Derek nods.

“Even Jackson?”

Derek shrugs.  “Whether he admits it or not, they’ve all recognized you as second.”

“So it wasn’t just an emergency substitute thing? That lasted?”

Derek nods.  “The spot is yours if you want to keep it.  You’ve earned it.”

Stiles’ face breaks into a smile.  “Free trial officially over, dude. Count me in.”


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place about 2 months after everything that went down with the alpha pack.

Sam wakes abruptly, the image of a strawberry blonde collapsing to the pavement in a pool of her own blood still burning in his mind’s eye.  He fumbles for his phone.

“Hey, Sam. We haven’t heard from you in months,” Stiles greets when he answers.  “Everything okay?”

“Where’s Lydia?”

“Lydia?”

“Where is she? I think she’s in danger. You need to—”

“She’s right here, Sam.  I’m looking at her right now.  We’re all watching a movie.  She’s fine.”

Sam sags in relief and sucks in a deep breath.  “Good,” he says finally.  “That’s good.”

“You care to explain why exactly you’re calling out of the blue to tell me Lydia’s in danger?”

“I—um—I—I kind of have these nightmares,” Sam confides, “and sometimes they come true.”

“You can see the future? You didn’t think to mention that when we were trying to make battle plans?”

“It’s not that simple.  I can’t control it, and it’s not seeing the future exactly. I just see people die sometimes.”

“What the fuck? You saw Lydia _die_?”

“She was in a parking lot, but I couldn’t tell where.  This guy was waiting to mug her.  He had a knife, and he…” Sam doesn’t finish the sentence.

“So what do we do? How do we keep it from happening?”

“I’ve stopped the visions from happening before,” Sam says.  “There’s nothing special exactly, just—don’t let her walk to her car alone anytime soon. It’ll still happen, but you can stop the attacker and change the outcome. She should be fine.”

There’s a beat of silence between them.  “Is there more we should know about this?”

“No,” Sam says firmly, wondering if wolves can hearing lying heartbeats over the phone.  “I just wanted to warn you.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, “and you’re sure there’s nothing—”

“There’s nothing else to say, Stiles.”

“Because if something’s happening with her—”

“I’m sure she’s fine. The visions are completely random. I get them about all kinds of people—strangers even.   I doubt it has anything to do with her specifically,” Sam lies.

“Okay,” Stiles replies, clearly still skeptical that Sam’s told him the whole truth.

“I gotta go,” Sam tells him.  “Call us if you need anything.”

“Sure. Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem.”

Sam hangs up the phone before Stiles can ask anything else.  He retrieves his laptop and begins searching through the files Chris Argent had for the Hale Pack. According to Argent, Lydia was barely pack, and she wasn’t a wolf so Sam hadn’t spend much time on her information. Now he’s pouring over every detail.

It’s a hospital report that catches his eye; the pages catalog Lydia’s treatment after being attacked by some vicious animal.  From the pictures taken at the hospital, the bite is distinct and the claw marks are deep.  It’s more than enough to turn her, but Argent still has her classified as human.  The notes say there was nothing to suggest a partial change in the days following the attack—not even the slight signs Stiles had shown, though Lydia had been exposed twice as much as Stiles.  There’s careful documentation of the subtle tests Allison helped her father try in order to ascertain why Lydia hadn’t reacted at all to the werewolf bite.  She’s not a demon, a shifter, a lower species of wolf, or anything else Argent could think to test for.  Everything came back clean.  Given that Sam had a vision of her and she was as immune to the werewolf bite as Sam had been to the croatoan virus, he’d guess she must be one of the yellow-eyed demons projects like him—except she’s too young for that.

 So then what the hell _is_ Lydia Martin?

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“This can’t wait?” Stiles huffs.

“No,” Derek replies firmly. “Now get your ass to the house.”

“I don’t understand why I—”

“ _Stiles._ ”

“Fine! I’m coming, okay? Jeez!”

He hangs up the phone and mutters a few other choice phrases before grabbing his cane and keys and heading out the door. It still depresses him a bit to walk out and get into his dad’s truck instead of his Jeep, but there’s no way his leg could handle working the clutch these days.  It’s been almost two months since the attack, but even with a little expedited healing from his new werewolf mojo, it’s been slow going to get back on his feet. He’s got some awesome scars though, and he guesses that’s sort of a cool silver lining. 

His anger simmers just below the surface his whole way to the Hale House.  The full moon’s in just a few days—the day he turns seventeen actually—and he can _feel_ it.  He may not shift like the others, but he gets unreasonably irritable and aggressive.  He’s still working on finding an anchor.  Derek’s not the most patient of teachers and his attempts to teach Stiles control before the last full moon ended in Stiles punching Derek in the face and Derek coming much too close to wolfing out on him.

Derek knows damn well that Stiles is trying to avoid the whole pack until the moon’s past, but _apparently_ there’s some question about the rebuilding of the house that can’t possibly wait another minute.  Stiles thinks it’s bullshit, and he doesn’t want to drive all the way to out there just to give some opinion on layout or design or insulation or whatever the hell else Derek’s trying to figure out right now.  The alpha pull is weirdly present in him when Derek calls with demands like this, but it’s not enough to have Stiles obeying Derek by default.  He’s doing what Derek asks because Derek’s been more excited and optimistic while rebuilding the house than Stiles has ever seen him.  Maybe Stiles is currently pissed at everything with a heartbeat, but it doesn’t mean he cares any less about the pack right now.

He’s still scowling when he turns down the drive to the Hale House.  It turns to a look of confusion as soon as the house comes into view.  There’s cars in the drive, and it looks like the whole pack is here—and his dad’s cruiser too.  Someone’s put streamers and Christmas lights all over the scaffolding and piles of lumber that stand in the front of the new house.  As he gets closer, he can see that one of the tarps on the side of the house has been spray painted to read “Happy birthday, Stiles!”

“Son of a bitch,” he says as a grin starts to spread across his face.

He parks the truck and the pack comes to meet him halfway to the house.  They’re all smiling as though they’ve just successfully completed some James Bond type of secret mission.

“You had no idea, did you?” Scott says gleefully.

“Dude, you sounded so pissed on the phone!” Isaac adds. “Derek totally had you going.”

“You’re welcome for the decorations,” Lydia tells him.  “The others planned to stop with the hideously spray-painted tarp over there.”

“Hey, it’s not hideous!” Scott argues with a bit of a pout.  

Lydia rolls her eyes.  “Anyway, happy birthday, Stiles.”

“Thanks.”

“Burgers are ready!” Derek calls from over by what seems to be a new grill next to what must be a newly-bought, oversized picnic table. “Everybody grab a plate.”

“You guys went all out, huh?” Stiles says as they all grab plates.  “This is awesome.”

“Glad you like it,” Isaac says.

“Derek had to buy stuff for us to hang out here eventually,” Scott says.  “We can’t make your dad host pack dinners forever.”

“You’re all welcome any time; you know that,” the sheriff says. 

“Anyway, your birthday seemed like a good excuse to set up house.”

“You couldn’t wait til after the full moon?” Stiles asks somewhat grumpily.  “Probably would’ve avoided having to piss me off to get me here.”

“No, that’s half the point,” Isaac says.

“What?”

“This is your anchor,” Derek replies, plopping a hamburger onto Stiles plate. “Happy birthday.”

“What?”

“The pack,” Derek expounds. “Family.  It’s going to be your anchor for the full moon. It’ll help to have a recent memory to focus on.”

“How do you know it’ll work?”

Derek shrugs.  “Works for me.”

Isaac had been walking toward the table, but he turns to look back at Derek.

“You said your anchor was anger,” Isaac counters.

“It was,” Derek replies.

“Awwww, he does actually like us,” Stiles teases.  He looks back over his shoulder. “Jackson, totally just lost that bet. Told you he’d admit it eventually, dude.  Granted the apocalypse is clearly coming so—”

“Shut up, Stilinski,” Jackson retorts.

“Hey, you have to be nice to me,” Stiles insists.  “This is my party.”

“Yeah, which means you’re the reason I had to lug that damn table all the way from—”

“Jackson,” Lydia snaps. “It’s his birthday.”

Jackson grumbles under his breath but, as usual, does what Lydia tells him to.  They take their places around the table, eating and laughing and fighting, and it’s such a Hallmark card kind of moment it makes Stiles want to vomit a rainbow.

But it feels _right._

“Presents,” Scott insists as soon as Stiles is done eating, nodding towards the small stack at one end of the huge table. 

Stiles obliges happily, opening a video game from Scott ( _Since I’ve already kicked your ass at everything else we play),_ comic books from Isaac ( _I know you like DC but you gotta give Marvel a shot eventually, dude)_ , a stylish brown leather jacket from Lydia ( _for the love of God stop wearing that awful red hoodie_ ) a shockproof, waterproof, as-close-as-it-gets-to-werewolf-proof phone from Derek ( _You better keep that damn thing charged)_ a cross bow from his dad ( _It’s not just so you can feel cool, Stiles; it’s an important skill)_ but it’s the last present that really gets him.

It’s from Jackson.

“What did Lydia have to threaten you with to make you actually get me something?” Stiles jokes.  “Or did she just pick it out and put your name on it?”

Jackson doesn’t reply, just scowls.  The box is heavy, and Stiles honest to God has no idea what the hell is in here. He’s definitely not prepared to pull out a bullet-proof vest.

“It’s called Dragon Skin,” Jackson says.

“Dude, this shit is expensive.”

“I drive a Porsche, moron. It’s not a problem.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Call it an investment so we don’t have to drag your ass to the hospital so often.”

And holy shit. _Even Jackson is enjoying having the pack—well enjoying it enough he doesn’t want me to die anyway._

“Thanks,” Stiles says, still kind of dumbfounded.  The whole pack is staring at Jackson like he’s just sprouted a third arm or something.  He fidgets uncomfortably before getting to his feet.

“So are we going to start this movie or what?” he demands. “’Cause I don’t want to be here all night.”

Everyone goes into motion then.  Helping clean up from the meal, and grabbing the various folding chairs and pillows they’d brought to sit on in the recently dry-walled living room.  Lydia brought a projector so they could watch movies on the conveniently still-blank walls in the house.  The Sheriff excuses himself for the evening and heads towards his car.  Stiles breaks the argument on which movie to watch by picking the Dark Knight, which apparently causes Isaac to lose a bet to Scott. 

They settle in as the movie starts, and Stiles still can’t wipe the smile off his face.  This is what he was hoping the pack would be when he agreed to joining.  Nights like this are what he’d been willing to fight for—a family, something to compete with the fear of loneliness that had settled deep in his bones not long after his mom died.  He doesn’t have _just_ his dad anymore. He doesn’t have just Scott.  He has a whole pack. He relishes in the feeling and uses it to stave off the anxiety that’s taken root in his gut from the moment he hung up the phone after Sam Winchester called two weeks ago.

He knows there’s more to the story than what Sam told him.  It’s the reason he’s been doing a little research on his own, and he has the feeling he’s not going to like whatever he figures out.  Even if Sam told him this was no big deal, he can feel there’s something important they haven’t been told.  He should be worried, but oddly enough, he isn’t. Not really.  Not in this moment. There’s something about being here, in the house they’re all building together, on pack territory, able to actually sense the bond that’s surging between all of them—it’s a whole network of power getting ever stronger—that makes Stiles feel as though they’re somehow invincible. 

Derek’s right; the sense of pack is more than enough to anchor them all through things a lot worse than the full moon.  Whatever’s coming for down the road for Lydia—or for any of them—they’ll fight together and they’ll keep going, like that Churchill quote the guidance counselor likes to use so much.

A few months ago, he’d joined this pack hoping it meant he was a little less likely to die before he finished high school.  He hadn’t been sure of anything; he’s still not sure of much, but he truly does believe they’ll graduate and go to college and build lives for themselves. They’ll strengthen this pack into an unstoppable force, and, most importantly, they’ll do all of it together. 

After all, it’s the family business.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, that's the end of Part 1. 
> 
> This is the very first fic I've ever published in any form, and I can't thank y'all enough for reading and commenting and leaving kudos. I really appreciate the encouragement!
> 
> Hope you'll keep reading the next parts! We've got a little character development-type stuff for Stiles and Derek for Part 2 and 3 and then we'll see the Winchesters again for Part 4 (so if you're just here for the crossover, you may want to skip ahead)
> 
> Thanks again, and feel free to find me as packdontendwithblood on tumblr if you're ever in the neighborhood.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!!!
> 
> HUGE thanks to my Alpha of a beta, Dana!!
> 
> Also, undying gratitude to all those who've left comments and feedback. Y'all keep me going!


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